Remnants Legion
by JamdoesWarhammer
Summary: Basically, Horus Heresy meets RWBY. From the killing-fields of Isstvan, to the calm world of Remnant, the Astartes of three shattered Legions come. This is a time of war, a time of bloody evolution, it is the Horus Heresy, there is only war.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

Lesser troops would have given up and accepted their fate in the face of such overwhelming opposition, but the Raven Guard, Salamanders and Iron Hands were Astartes. So they fought like never before, desperately. They sought escape from the two armies, others simply sought to bleed them deeply.  
Unrelenting gunfire from the Iron Warriors crushed the Raven Guard and Salamanders, all whilst the resurgent forces along the Urgal Depression caught them in a vice, cutting through their dwindling formations.  
Warriors of the Word Bearers, strangely mutated ran forwards. Crashing into the rear guard of the Raven Guard. Those unaffected by the mutations blasted them away with bolter and bit with revving chainswords.  
And it was through this killing field, a group of Raven Guard, Salamanders and bareilly living Iron Hands broke through.  
He had not felt this way for a long time. Not since he had first fought as a Storm Walker, before Ferrus Manus. It was Rust that had taken that vigour from him. Yes, it had been a long time since Atrax had fought with such vigour. It burned through him, giving him strength beyond his augmented transhuman physique, only one word could describe it.  
Retribution.  
It was a hatred that burned in the chest of the Iron Father as he crashed into the Word Bearer lines, sending the thrice-cursed bastards to their graves. Following Amadeus had given him a reason to fight, but it had been Ferrus Manus that gave him reason to live, a purpose.  
Now he was taken from him, by the brother he had called friend.  
So in the memory of Ferrus Manus, Amadeus, Gabriel and all his dead brothers, Atrax would slay. They would all be avenged, one traitor at a time. A shame then that he fought the sons of Lorgar, and not those of the whore-son Fulgrim.  
He went low and brought his power sword to bear, stabbing it hard into the knee-joint of the legionary.  
Even a legionary had to respect a wound like that.  
The warrior dropped as his leg gave out. His arm swung about, trying to draw a bead with his bolter, but Atrax cut it off at the fore-arm. The traitor was struggling, reaching for a combat blade, but the fight was already over.  
Atrax rammed the blade into the soft-seal of the neck, twisting and then pulling it, killing the legionary. But another came, and another. More.

Warriors in butcher-red armour came towards him, shooting as they moved. More pulped flesh and blood puffed and spilled as bolt-rounds exploded amongst his fellow disparate survivors. Atrax saw one of his clan-brothers, a young warrior named Rsstek, go down, singled out for the melta-gun he was carrying. This fate would be his too if he yielded to it.  
They were all around him now, he had been unfortunate, separated from his kinsmen in the charge and counter-charge.  
He saw a figure then, standing back from the killing field that was his kinds creation, a leering skull-helm masked his face. A Chaplain then. His cloak was of velvet and ork-hide, a massive power maul, a staff of office, was slung over his back.  
The weight of the sword in Atrax's hand seemed to fade away. It seemed as though it would end here, what had he been thinking, that he alone could avenge the dead? Here, on Isstvan, he would die.  
Dead… One of the many, another for the traitor's tally.  
He could see how it would end. A power axe, sweeping down to cut into his left shoulder, disabling his sword arm. A sword, thrusting towards his primary heart, and the bolt-rounds that would take his legs, and finally his head.  
He would die here.  
The realisation sank, rage built, not the calm of acceptance, but anger at weakness.  
I do not die here.  
But you do. Traitor.  
His sword met the axe's haft edge to grip. Sparks and shrikes filled the air as it carried up, slamming into the axe itself. He could through the head, sword snapping of temporarily with the strain of the conflicting disruption fields. He pushed the cut on and into the warriors chest. The traitor could not fall. He was impaled upon the sword. Atrex pushed the blade down and out through the groin of the traitor.  
The power sword thrust into the space Atrex had been occupying previously. It clipped his plaston, managing to split a segment. He slammed his heavy head into the new attacker's face. Bolts exploded all around him, friend, foe, it mattered not. He pulled his sword around, ready to take the legs from under the warrior  
This was not the fighting of his kind, not the effective slow-moving masses firepower of his legin. Even if melee, it was often calculated and cold, but this, this was fighting he had not experienced since before Ferrus.  
This was brute force; stabbing, hacking, breaking. Killing without pause or care of the blood painting the world. Atrex drove forwards, every movement of his sword a strike.  
He shrugged off a blow from a chainsword, felt as it cracked his right pauldron. More fresh blood was spilt, another body fell, another step closer to the Chaplain. A shell exploded on his damaged plastron. The ceramite shattered. Pain exploded, pulsing through him, the next strike went wide. A chainaxe swept down, cutting his augmetic left arm, tearing exposed cabling, wiring and gears. Then another across his shoulder, hacking at him.  
Blood. He could taste the bitter coppery substance fill his mouth.  
Another charged to finish him, a horse-hair plumm marking him as some kind of officer.  
'Come kill me!' Rasped Atrek.  
A bolter howled in defiance, and two arms pulled at Atrex, dragging him from the carnage of the Urgal Depression.  
'Iron Hand,' said a Raven Guard, the one with the bolter. 'Can you still shoot?'  
To that, Atrex nodded.

Korphaal, Raven Guard, killed.  
He dropped to one knee and put a bolt-round into the visor-slit of the nearest Night Lord. The traitor fell, his jump pack whining as he crashed. Korphaal put two into the next before rolling aside as a blast of bolter fire chewed where he had just been standing. A rapid spray of return fire punched the third Lord and blood flew out from the crater that had been his head.  
He glanced around and saw familiar, dark shapes moving across ruined battle-tanks, bound from one to the other in unnecessary near-silence.  
Captain Sharax at the rear, his gladi lost, old Wattik, stripped down plasma-rifle firing, and the others of his Company. Then, unsuspectingly a Night Lord killed Wattik, methodically he was cut to ribbons. A burst of bolter fire from the Captain saw him to put down.  
He moved rapidly towards the relative safety of a Land Raiders carcass, letting off shots with none of the deadly grace his kind were known for, few hit to kill.  
More bolt fire from his brothers nearby filled his senses.  
'Conserve your ammunition,' Sharax ordered. 'Forwards. We can break through them. Now, let's move.'  
Korphaal ran forwards. He lashed out. His axe cut through a Word Bearer, but more were coming.  
He saw other warriors up ahead, all in the charcoal black of the Iron Tenth, and not the matt-black of the Raven Guard.  
Sharax saw them as well, together, they charged to join the Sons of the Gorgon.

Atrex and his rescuers continued to fire, bolt-rounds punching through the thick cloud of vapour permitting from the bodies of both sides. As he did so, so the traitors followed.  
Atrex cut down the traitor lines, bolts detonated next to him as he raked the rubble. He fired empty.  
Atrex thumbed the bolter's release to replace the spent magazine, then thumbed another in its place. He shot two bolts through the chestplate of one traitor, one through a helm-grill of another.  
'What is your name?' Asked the Raven Guard with the blter, his badges designating him as a captain.  
'Atrex, Iron Father and lord of Clan Felkaen,' he said. 'Your self?'  
The Raven turned about, ducking behind a ruined Mastodons track unit. 'Sharax, Captain of the eight-sixth Company.' It seemed as though he was going to say something but stopped, in place of words, came the roar of his bolter.  
Missiles from the traitor whirlwind batteries streaked across the sky. The missiles cut through the loyalists, slaying dozens. Sharax stood amidst it all at the eye of the hurricane, the officers of his Company, and others less fortunate, looked to him.  
Explosions rocked the whirlwinds, a swathe of detonations swept through the Word Bearers, Emperor's Children and Night Lord advanced forces. Broad-winged aircraft soared above the loyalists, descending slowly towards their embattled brothers.  
'Atrex,' called a voice. An Iron Hand approached the Iron Father, his bolter little more than a club. His second was a proud tennant to the Legion declaration of 'the flesh is weak.' Shielded pistons, bracing studs and a head of brass and silver.  
Reman truly hated his flesh.  
'Reman, how many are we?' Atrex demanded, snapping off a trio of bolt-rounds. His second reply was inconceivable due to a volley of artillery. 'Get to a transport, it doesn't matter if it's ours or theirs, just move!'  
'Marshall the embarkation,' Reman said to someone over the vox. 'Everyone onboard were breaking for orbit.'

Kraver stood in the launch bay, watching the drop-ships landing. The first ones to land discouraged their survivors, the Raven Guard took weary steps as the walked down the assault-ramps.  
Serfs came forwards, they carried metal trays with meats and water. They gorged down the food, as some of their brothers were taken to the apothecarium.  
As more shuttles landed, Kraver noticed an increase of non Raven Guard legionaries, here were the Iron Tenth, with Salamanders in muted-jade.  
Then came the last craft, a Stormbird. From it came an Iron Hand with four others of its kinsmen, then came Sharax, a new scar ran his face, from his left eye to the jaw, then jaw to ear.  
'Kraver,' Sharax rasped. 'Ready the engines we depart immediately.'


	2. Chapter 2 Jotnies begining

**CHAPTER TWO**

The first ship he saw die in the onslaught was a strike cruiser of the Salamanders. Streams of plasma reached out from cruisers. Macro shells detonated amongst the molten wounds already cut into its thick, adamantium and titanium bastions of gun-ports were sheared from its flanks, streaming trails of fire were starved of oxygen. It kept going as it died, punching forwards to the Mandeville point. It detonated, a bright white fire, like a newborn sun.  
'Ship kill,' declared the scry-seer from across the bridge of the Aphrodite.  
Centarien watched the fleeing ship die as it spread across the grand oculus set to the fore of the bridge, gently curving to either side. He was armoured, his sword drawn and sitting across his legs. He did not faint away from the almost blinding light, instead a small smile spread across his nigh perfect features, even in a legion such as his. His hair was bone-white, himself of a coily form, skin like ivory. He was a son of Chemos, a son of Fulgrim, and to the Imperium, a traitor.  
Around him the human crew were silent, eyes fixed to their instruments and screens. This was a moment few knew was coming, of all those on the bridge, only Centarien, his Lieutenant Galen and the now mute brother Fultren had known it was coming.  
Here they were, hunting the dregs, stubborn, and just perhaps, the brave survivors.  
'If they keep coming like this, I shall have to find indulgence somewhere else.' The voice of Brother-Sergeant Atriean was a low growl. Something about him, no all of them, had changed since Laern.  
'They will not give us time for such laxity,' Galen replied, voice rich with an unshakable acinet, neither the son of Terra or Chemos. Centarien did not look at either of them as he observed the battle-sphere displayed on the hololith, his face furrowed. Each was a vetrean of void combat, it was their preferred killing ground, not the tarnishing wastelands that were the result of ground warfare.  
Centurian wore ornate Mark III armour, ornate with decorations, save the shins and right shoulder covered in reinforced studs. The scars of old battle, half forgotten now to some, were replaced, now was a fresh purple lacquer.  
Galen was much like him, though heavy set and with a boarding shield at the ready. He almost frowned at his own words, whilst Atrien grinned at the micro-expression.  
'All ships, strike,' said Centarien softly, and heard his orders be carried out, across his small flotilla were enough cruiser grade vessels to conquer a Sub-sector, perhaps even another.  
He pulled his helm from his belt, purple and gold, unblemished, he locked it in place over his head. 'For the Emperor! Death to His foes!' He said, a small smile growing on his face as Atrien's smile grew.  
The Aphrodite leapt forwards. Twelve cruisers and eighteen gun-boats, destroyers and gun-barges followed in tight formation, lances illuminated the void, plasma turned to rolling tides.  
The strike cruiser Hope of Chemos died. It spun as it was punched by a volley of macro shells shattered against its exposed hull, cracking it as it crashed into a gun-boat. The Aphrodite and her companies did not pause but continued to cut through the fleeing ships, hearts filled with anger.  
But unnoticed to the Emperor's Children battlegroup, a lone strike cruiser hung below them, barely slipping through the blockade.

From the bridge of the Shadow of Deliverance, Sharax watched as the traitors butchered his brothers. The Shadow of the Emperor, was gutted, destroyed by the Death Guard vessel Terminus Est. The battle-barge Umbra Victorum, vessel of the honoured twenty-ninth, was boarded and seized by the Night Lords, now turned against those fleeing Isstvan for the false safety of their former home.  
The Sons of Corax were not alone, the Salamander cruiser Pyre Spear was cut to pieces in the crossfire between an Iron Hand and Warrior's duel, it died so soon it didn't even explode.  
The Shadow was not to share this fate, hidden from all but the most inquisitive of system. Reflex shielding was a variation of standard void shielding used solely by the Nineteen. All energy signatures from the ship were, in place of enemy fire, displaced into the warp.  
But some shots, not by design, found the flesh of the Raven Guard cruiser.  
'Impact, three decks down, they don't seem to have aimed for us,' said Kraver as pulsing red light cast a gloom across the bridge. Sharax glanced over at his command squad leader. Kraver returned it.  
'Bring us about hard to starboard, we make a run for under those Third Legion warships,' Sharax commanded. 'Then we break for warp once we reach the garvi-pause.'  
'Your brother tells me the astropaths are all united - they say they can break at the gravi-pause,' the voice of Iron Father Atrex was harsh compared to that of the sons of Deliverance. 'I can only say I am… Surprised. I had not expected such a rash decision from you Sharax.'  
'I too find myself surprised, Atrex.' Said Sharax, leaving it at that.  
'Good,' the Iron Father said, coming to stand beside Sharax. 'For it will surely surprise our enemies.' A smile was present on his face as he spoke. 'Tell me, are you familiar with deadfall torpedoes?'  
Sharax turned to face the Father, a raised eyebrow his reply.  
'I see,' he said. 'Now imagine we prime a set of torpedoes, give them a countdown, or perhaps, minimal distance for detonation. Then we dump them.' Atrex hand went to the Emperor's Children battlegroup. 'They will then likely maim, if not kill, our pursuers. They will also draw their attention from our brothers.'  
'Do what you have to do, Atrex.'

Emperor's Children fast-attack wings screamed out of the empty void. Wings of fighters - Storm Eagles, Xiphon Interceptors, Lightning Crows - scattered ahead of the battlegroup. A glorious cauldron of war, no, an artistic rendition of the truth of war, was to be played out here in the void.  
The Aphrodite pushed ahead, foremost of the true warships. The battlegroup had been cut apart now barely two-thirds of its number remained, frigates fanned out in a wide 'V' formation, followed by the heavier cruisers.  
Centarien stood on the edge of the raised command platform, watching his brothers burn towards a rival battlegroup, made of the loyalist survivors.  
'Maintain full speed,' Centarien ordered. 'Fire only on my mark.'  
The initial strike would be critical. They would be stripped of their shields by the battlegroup, whilst the fighter wings discouraged bombs and rode their spines, gliding towards the command bridge of each ship. It would be a beautiful killing blow, if acted out correctly.  
'Cut speed, one quarter!' roared Centarien. 'Calibrate all cruisers on the central ship, all else, free-fire pattern.'  
He waited for the ship to slow before giving the order.  
'Mark!' he commanded.  
Every vessel loosed its weapons, just as the first loyalist vessel gave them a volley. Cannonades, torpedoes, heavy bolter-rounds, las-beams - all smashed into the loyalist fleet. A sphere of immolation filled the void, fire lived for a breath moment in an oxygen-starved atmosphere.  
'Again.'  
The fighters struck now, hammering at the flame wreathed ships from their shildess flanks. Missiles bracketed their flesh, whilst las-beams cut rivets in their battle-cannons. Salvo after salvo hit home, smashing hard against the adamantium skin of their targets.  
In the face of such fury, even legion armour would break.  
'Eliminate them,' said Centarien coldly, bracing himself as the Aphrodite fired her main lance again, searring her beam through the dorsal flanks of an Salamanders destroyer. She was a beauty with a bite, all things Centarien enjoyed.  
The battlegroup turned, presenting their broadsides to their doomed prey. But before they could fire, the Aphrodite shook. 'We seem to have been hit, lord,' stated a serf. Whimpering as it spock to others, why was it whimpering? Centarien blocked it from his mind, focusing on what could be done.  
'Atreian,' he called to the hololith projection. 'Continue mopping up here, I shall split and move for the nearest mandeville. We have reports of out cousins fleeing.'  
'Of course, my captain,' replied the sergeant, his voice almost a hiss. 'Shall I unleash my blades, they grow unruly.'  
'Very well Atreian, unleash them if you must, but make sure the ship they board is one we can use.'  
With a grin, Atriean nodded.

The Shadow of Deliverence's primary apothecarium was full to capacity. Human serfs and labotamished servitors moved over their patients, sons of three legions knitted together. Apothecaries of the three legions laboured together, sharing advice, and working on warriors not of the brotherhood. One of them, a junior medicae of the Salamanders stood over an Iron Hands vetrean, looking the half-man half-machine in his sole eye.  
Phaeton had lost a foot, so he had reported to a triage section in which the less experienced junior medicare's of the three legions had been assigned. Though overspill had brought him to the primary apothecarium. He saw two warriors of his legion, neither of Clan Avernii, being recently removed from surgical beds. Dead. Others took their place, a ston-faced Clan-brother named Ranten, with a warrior of the Salamanders joining him.  
'Care to explain,' said the Salamander, a statement not a question.  
'Fulgrim,' Phaeton said. 'Fulgrim killed my gene-sire, whilst his sons killed my brothers.'  
The Salamander nodded, rubbing antiseptic over the wound. 'Might I have your name, mine is Narkra.'  
'Narkra,' Phaeton said as the laser scalpel bit his flesh. 'I am Phaeton.'  
'Well Phaeton,' Narkra began. 'We have no juveneant packs left for triage, and your wounds also wouldn't have warranted it either.' He talked with the coldness of the Iron Tenth, not the compassion of the Fire-born. 'So, you will have you will have to let is adjust naturally. It will be weak, it will be painful.'  
'I am prepared,' Narkra said, embracing the coming pain as penance.

A fist thumped on the iron hatch. Atrex rose, lowering his bolter to the workbench he had been provided. His arms were stripped of armour, his left was a fusion of augment and flesh, meeting at his flesh-elbow.  
'Enter,' he said.  
His quarters were small and cluttered. Barely a fifth of what he had once had aboard the Iron Temperst.  
The hatch opened with a grating noise, and Sharax entered.  
'Your chamber, it does not fit your status.' He declared.  
'I chose it, I am closest to my brother's here. It also humbles me, it reminds me of what has been lost.'  
'We are underway,' Atrex stated, he had felt the shudder of translation two hours earlier, and had smelled the bitter tang chlorine that indicated the geller fields activation a few moments later.  
Sharax nodded.  
'I need a second,' he said softly, cutting to the matter at hand.  
'I considered my own, but that would seem as though I were cutting your brothers and the Salamanders from the command structure. The Salamanders most senior warrior is a Sergeant, barely into the rank from what he tells me.' He sighed. 'Your the most senior, and respected, of your brotherhood present.'  
'Here I was,' Atrex said. 'Thinking you came to be first. Knowing I was the best by nature.'  
'Does anyone ever laugh at your jokes, Atrex?'  
'A remembrancer, once.'  
'So will you accept?'  
'Yes, I will. But first, we need a plan of action.' Atrex began. 'We can examine our strength, create our command structure, mix squads if need be. Then find a suitable target, if one presents itself. And, if possible, find safe harbour.'  
Sharax nodded. 'Already, giving me ideas to take the credit for?'  
They both laughed lightly.

**Afterword.  
Greetings, I have a question for any and all who read this. How long do you want the "journey to Remnant" take. Also, enjoying it, favorite character? And one last thing. Now I have put certain things in a different font, times roman, like ship names. But the site does not apply that, any advice. Adding to that, every new paragraph, save the first in a part, has a "space" used, but it doesn't seem to work either, so if any, advice?  
Also criticism must have it.**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

'Our first order of business must be requisition of materials,' said Sharax. 'If we can not do so, then we will be unable to prosecute our, shadow war.'  
None spoke, only six warriors were present, two for each of the legions gathered.  
'Agreed,' spoke up Atrex. 'But the question is, from where shall we acquire these materials? From what we know, the Traitor Legions are scouring the nearby systems, with traitor Army and Mechanicum assistance. Several worlds have already fallen to them, include the nearest forge-moon.'  
'If I may,' spoke up the Salamanders representative, a young sergeant named Phaekrel. 'The Expedition to which me and my brothers were attached to had been heading for a near-by world known as Aridian Secundus. The world was to provide us with material enough to last a decade, or so I was told. Here,' he said punching in coordinates on the hololith. 'We are, relatively speaking, close,' he said, face cast a dark blue by the holo-light.  
'It will take nearly a month to reach it, even at best speed.' Growled Phaeton, Atrex's designated second. 'Assuming they have not sided with the Warmaster, what makes you so sure we can convince them to hand over their materials?'  
'Nothing,' the young Salamander said bluntly. 'But I think we all know what will happen when we run out of the coin of war. Flesh, machinery, blood or fuel. Already we grow short.'  
Atrex nodded. 'Very well, I second this motion,' his left hand rose.  
'As do I,' said Sharax, then his second Kraver. Deciding the next steps to be taken.

When later historians would try to piece together the events which saw Galeminen Secundus' path in the Heresy decided, they would find the first blow was struck against the loyalist Arch-Magos Hadarak, when his Aridan Crater Forge Maximus was struck by the traitor legions of Magos Muab's skitarii. Legions of the thrice-damned traitor marched from the eastern Aridan Mountain, marching through razor-winds that saw stones the size of men thrown about wildly, able to flay a man alive. They only left fire and fury as the sight of their passing.  
Vast manyfactrium and scriptorums burned, their workers slaughtered, turned to molten scrap and rivers of magma-hot blood. Muab's great war-horn sounded in triumph, like the screams of primitive savages.  
It was only the beginning.

The strike fleet plunged deep into the lines of ragged ships hanging in the dark. The Emperor's Children were few - seven against twenty, but the numbers did not matter. The seven purple-and-gold-armoured warships dtruck the ragged fleet in an arrow-head formation. Broadsides shattered the defenders void shields, whilst lances sliced and diced. The enemy fleet began to die, as their attackers momentum pushed them onwards.  
At the fore of the III Legion formation, three ships led the charge. At their head was the Aphrodite. Behind her, the courtiers that fussed over her began to loosen boarding torpedoes. Darts the size of hab-tenements were carried on jets of fire. Each contained warriors of the Legion, some as few as three to the largest of twenty-four.  
Centarien stood in the endless clamour of the launch bay. He listened as he re-sheathed his power sword, hearing the industries of war as an archaic song. Not unlike the Chemnos of old. The largest of the enemy ships - a gun-barge five kilometres long - grew in his eye, cast into vision by his helm. Macro and lance batteries fired up and down its length and breadth as Centarien watched it.  
He put his hand to his blade pommel, feeling it, perfect.  
'It is secure,' a musical voice sounded from behind. 'Yet you insist on keeping hold of it, like a child with an anxious mother, no captain?' He glanced, and in his full view was Nicholan, armoured clean but dented with resent battle. An old war-dog, something needed more than ever in these strange times.  
He looked behind him. Thirty legionaries rose as one. The best for the task at hand - breacher and assault squads - stood in loose formation around them. The air was cut through by the flaring engines. Servitors and serfs stood back from the torpedoes. Heat was shunted into the void by large vents as fires lit.  
Centarien looked over his brothers, moving his eyes over each legionary. Then he raised his sword to his helm, pressing it in salute.  
'Launch,' he said turning around.

Two Whispercutter landers glided across Aridan Crater Forge Sigma, the ten-man craft were spots of black against star filled sky. Little more than winged anti-grav sleds, the legionaries clinging to their sides were exposed to the elements as they slowly descended. They were almost undetectable.  
'Brace, going starboard,' warned Keltar, shifting his weight.  
Korphaal clutched the grab rail tighter as the pilot, just in front of the sergeant, as he brought the lander into a tight turn, steering away from the main manufactorum complex. The other lander broke to port, heading for its own target, designated in the briefing aboard the Shadow.  
Below, Sigma was in trouble, the last embers of a once grand forge-world were slowly dying. A column of dark robed traitor Skitarii of the so called Dark Mechanicum marched through the streets.  
Loyalists to Arch-Magos Hadarak fought on. Las-bolts sparked from rooftops, sharpshooters conscripted from the labour forces taking opportunistic snap-shots.  
'What is the First Axiom of Stealth to my Legion?' Korphaal asked Morug, an Iron Hand attached to his squad.  
'To be where the enemy does not want you to be,' Morug said, voice a harsh rasp.  
'Correct, now then. Drop!' He said, pushing off from the lander as it began to climb again.  
All across the last forge, scenes like this would continue to play out.

Centarien vaulted from the petal-mouth of the torpedo, using the collision to propel him into the open chamber the torpedo had impacted, in another age he would have called it a church.  
His sword swept out, its edge light by crackling thunder. Men died. Behind him came his brothers.  
Centarien mved and killed with elegance and grace, like a dancer perfectly choreographed to match those of any foe. Mortals tried to cut him down, but his moves were too subtle to precise, theirs were clumsy, ugly. His thunder-lit sword bisected bodies, his gold-and-ivory-chased pistol killing with headshots.  
Las-bolts slammed into his chest and shoulders, scorching the purple of his armour, and gold of his ornamentation. Some even killed those he fought, killed in blind panic. They all knew he could not be killed as an equal, so tried in any way they could best him. Even at the cost of their friends lives. He kept moving, killing. If they wished to kill him, they would kill themselves first.  
The Emperor's Children created a spear thrust into the Army lines. He saw brother-sergeant Vidar smashing aside the mortals with his thunder hammer. His palatine aquila had been cut from his armour, in its place was a gaudy emblem that both filled Centarien with misery and elation.  
The red-dyed hair of Nicholan was stained with blood, his chainsword howled as it cut through the mortals, their screams like a choir of agony. Crixus the assault vetrean, his face forever locked between a friends smile and a killers grimace was hidden behind his helm. He bashed aside a mortal with his boarding shield, his sword thrusting ever so slightly when he moved to kill.  
Centarien beheaded a pair of trooper's as they tried to flee, a return volley of las-bolts was his thanks.  
His vox was filled with the voice of Galen. 'Captain,' he said. 'We are moving to take the enginarium. How proccedes your move to the bridge?'  
Centarien laughed as he spoke. 'I have had more trouble from children,' the flat noise of bolter fire followed his words, underlining everything he said. 'If I did not know any better, I would have said my torpedo landed in a church of Old Earth.' He looked around, seeing the sliders were all dead, or being executed. 'I am moving to my target now, continue with your task at hand.' Not waiting for a reply, he shut of the vox-link.

Morlock vetrean Phaeton of Clan Avernii watched as yet more iron-skinned containeraware born by the Arch-Magos lobotomised servitors to the supply haulers, that would climb towards the strike cruiser he now called home. They were working at the fullest extent of their abilities, yet Phaeton already knew that much of their precious cargo would never make it off world.  
Maniples of skitarii, penal legions and other less identifiable forces were moving in on the Forge. The Raven Guard tactics had bled off much of the secondary and tertiary forces, taking them away from the final push on the loyalists.  
Phaeton marched through the precious organised march of servitor loaders carrying racks of bolters and bolt-rounds, lifters carried batches of assembled power armour and spare components ranging from eye lenses to power packs. The Arch-Magos guided the like an a choir master.  
Atrex was overseeing the loading of the wargear, whilst his second, Reman, saw the final fortification of the Forge complex's main wall. The Salamander's were making a fighting-retreat towards a Storm Eagle south-east, drawing away a trio of Sentinels and their unaugmented minders. The Raven Guard hit-and-run tactics would leave a lasting effect on Aridian for years to come, for the better, Phaeton hoped.  
'It must go faster,' Phaeton said bluntly. 'We have little time left to us.'  
'I assure you we are going as fast as we can, Iron Hand.' The Arch-Magos' voice was a gentle hum.  
'You must go faster, the enemy are at your doorstep. They batter aside your cohorts, whilst they burn your works. They may be here, here, in mere moments.'  
The Arch-Magos in loaded the data-packet Phaeton transmitted to him . 'Muab's skitarii have always been brutes, but this. We must save Forge Sigma!'  
Phaeton hesitated before he spoke. 'No, we can not. The forces arrayed against us outnumber us a hundred to one, even if we were to engage them, we would be crushed. We have no reason to put up such a futile defence.'  
'Futile defence!' The Arch-Magos roared. 'This is my force, it can, no, will not fall. Not today, not ever. I will not-'  
The main wall exploded. Phaeton saw Reman turn and open fire on skitarii as they clambered over the ruins, the Iron Hand was mobbed by the traitors. His fate was easy to distern.  
Atrex was shouting over the vox, it was over, they were to make it to their assigned craft.  
'Fair well, Arch-Magos, die well.' It took every ounce of self control for Phaeton not to throw himself against the guns of the traitor skitarii.

Bolter fire cut down the twenty metre transit in horizontal spears of fire. The shooting was disciplined, it seemed he had walked in upon the elite guards of the ship. Centarien felt the heat of a near-miss wash over his face. He had lost his helm earlier, lost to a sergeant wielding a power sword, they had jumped from the ceiling as heavy stubbers in the ceiling had activated. That was somthing he could respect, if not for how idiotic it was.  
To Centarien's right, Nicholan fired his bolter over the top of his shield. He had pulled the shield from a dead brother, to protect from the new torrent of return-fire.  
Heavy bolter, lascannon and even beam cutters were being employed here. Slowly Centarien watched his brother's fall dead.  
Haeron went down, the old swordmaster was blown apart in a dozen places by a heavy bolter.  
The pair working on the weapon panicked as it jammed, Centarien killed them with a grenade. They were shredded, scorched metal and torn flesh.  
Belthiel's was hit by a hyper-dense beam of light. For a second it seemed as though nothing would happen, then the Hero of the Kentan Peninsula was crushed like an insect under a boot.  
'Nicholan!' Centarein shouted. 'Rapier, conversion beamer, take it out!'  
The sound of a dozen bolter's targeting the rapier was a distinctive noise. Centarien was beginning to feel ill-informed. 'This ship,' he said. 'This is no mear gun-barge.'  
As if to prove his point, warriors in muted-jade came charging at the Emperor's Children.  
The warrior at their front wore a cape of faded sapphire. Ident tags designated him as Malthex, lieutenant-commander of the 66th.  
Malthex fired as he ran. As did the nine warriors following him, Bolt pistol and short-sword variant of a power sword. They were ready for a brutish fight.  
Malthex came at him, sword arcing towards his sword arm.  
Centarien's power sword deflected the blade. Malthex fired a shot in his midriff, the captain roared with the detonation.  
Centarien caught the pistol with his sword, cutting up, severing the weapon at the breach. He stepped into Malthex's guard, grabbing his gorget and headbutting the lieutenant-commander.  
Centarien kept going, sometimes sometimes bludgeoning, sometimes stabbing. He pushed on into the Salamanders.  
Surrounded on all sides, he killed. Long thrusts bled a warrior with a melta flask in hand, ready to take himself and Centarien to their deaths. Sharp, diagonal cuts sliced and diced an Army sergeant, her screaming head sent flying towards the bridge blast door.  
Thirty seconds later, the fighting was over. Centarien found Malthex's body, and took his head.

The blast door tore open like a titan kicked it. A towering figure was revealed, like an angel of old legend, yet also the harbinger of old tails.  
Captain Rughaal had expected to be cut down by massed bolt-fire, or be slaughtered in a glorious charge. Not this.  
The harbinger-angel tossed something to Rughaal's feet, he looked down at it.  
An Astares helm, the muted-jade of the Salamanders. The helm was covered in blood, caved in in places Blood oozed from the left eye lense, now glass piercing a broken eye socket.  
'That is lieutenant-commander Mathex,' said the killer. 'Legiones Astartes Salamander, 66th Company. He died fighting.'  
The killer took a step into the enclosed space of the bridge, blood covered the midriff. 'Malthex could not kill me. He was an Astartes, just like me, trained in our unique way of war-making. Skilled in death dealing. Yet here I am, alive.'  
Rughaal wanted to raise his last pistol, to shoot the traitor.  
'Why, why do you tell us this?' Rughaal asked.  
'Because,' said the harbinger-angel, raising his sword. 'It shall be your fate as well. Now, die well.'

**Greeting's, hope you all enjoyed. Next chapter will be for RWBY. Not sure if i'm doing a Christmas or New Years special, I suppose we will see. Till next time then. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Remnant, before Isstvan.  
'Primary Observation, this is Mantis five, sweeping grid four-eight-six-five now, my radar is clear, all systems are functioning correctly. Please acknowledge.'  
'Acknowledged Mantis five, we have you on long-range and are plotting now. Your patrol toute, and course, have been logged.'  
The radar controller, Lars Laxin, a man over-seeing a long bank of chirping radards, yawned. It was a beautiful morning, and the sun was rising strong and yellow-white over Primary Observation The only large-scale military base on the northern coastline of all of beautiful Atlas. Laxin's shift was almost over, and unlike the tireless radars he oversaw, he was looking forward to his early morning meal, warm water running over his tight muscles in a bath, and then some well deserved sleep. But for nw, his duty kept him here, in the long, steel-built chamber that was as loud as a cemetery and just as loved.  
He bore the symbol of his kingdom on his white uniform, surrounded by an extra sphere that was his regiments symbol of pride. The northern coast of Atlas was small, mostly due to icebergs, though some of that was also caused by the mountains that lined it like a spinal column, though a deformed one at that. It had, surprisingly, fertile farming land. That always sat strangely with Laxin.  
Call sign Mantis five was a large craft, by its Atlesian classification. Based on the hull of an Atlesian dropship craft, it was elongated and slimed down, extra tri-linked gatling cannons hung its wings. It was one of several in a quadron held at Primary Observation. On this day, Mantis was far enough from Primary that it required more radio-updates. Its job was to observe, not to engage, and in any case, the only thing to come across would be a few Beowolves. Besides, a battalion of Atlesian soldiers were held at Primary's barracks.  
Laxin checked his watch. Twenty minutes until relief. High above him, the early light of the sun poured through the armoured window-slits of his post.  
Laxin yawned again, thinking of his young fiance in the capital city of Atlas, the green fields of his - soon to be her - families smallest estate. A man might live his entire life in the kingdom of Atlas, just endless fields of ice and snow.  
'Primary Observation, this is Mantis three, we have an anonymous reading in grid four-seventeen- eight-twelve, coming up on the radar now. Some kind of metallic contact, possibly an iron mine or something.'  
Laxin rubbed his eyes and touched the comm-mic that let him speak with Mantis five.  
'Primary Observation, Mantis five here - you are not going to believe what I have picked up here ! I've never seen anything like it before.' Mantis three's voice was a high scream now, fear and awe.  
'Mantis five, relay your findings to me at once.'  
In place of Mantis five's pilot response, there was a squeak of static then silence.  
'Mantis five, are you receiving me? Acknowledge my last message and relay your findings.' Impatience edged Laxin's voice.  
'They, they have us- we are not -' the transmission cut off, leaving Mantis five's fearful words unheaded.  
Laxin began to sweat. The radars continued to chirp, now without Mantis five.

The doors slid open with a hiss and Lieutenant Gailio walked in, an older, weary man who looked as though he had just gotten himself out of bed. His uniform was a size to big, he seemed to shrink in it, it seemed un-ironed. He seemed to have given up on the formality of parade uniform, like him, the uniform was waiting for its final day of service.  
'Mantis five again, eh?' Laxin could hear the rhetorical sarcasm ooze from Gailio's words, it was one of the man's few joys.  
'It is most likely nothing to worry about.' But a part of Laxin was worried, worried as he thought on the fear in five's voice.  
'You now protocol though, I intended to send out Mantis two. Do you agree?' Gailio asked, unlike his uniform, he maintained the formality of chain of command.  
'Affirmative,' if Mantis Five had crashed, then perhaps he was alive. He could have been knocked from the sky by a Nevermore, though that was scant comfort. Gailio nodded.  
They waited. Laxin felt the vibration from the launch pad through the old buildings bones as Mantis five prepared for take-off.  
'Primary Observation, Mantis five ready for take-off.'  
Gailio and Laxin shared a look and the younger nodded.  
'Mantis five, your are cleared for take-off.' Gailio said. 'Make for Mantis five's last known coordinates and report in.'  
An affirmative blip answered.  
It would take thirty minutes for the first reports to come in. It would take years more before they were finally understood.

Remnant, years later.  
'Monsters. Daemons. Nighstalkers. Yes the Grimm have any names, oh most certainly. But I ask you all, why Grimm?'  
Professor OoBleck proposed the question. To the three students that could understand his frenzied speech. 'Perhaps, as some have said, it is because of the word. Grim.' He paused. 'Who here can tell me the meaning of the word, grim?'  
No student raised their hand, some looked blankly ahead. Other's found other ways to pass the time, one red-and-black haired girl in particular, was scribbling a drawing of her gun-scythe - Crescent Rose.  
'Come now students, surely one of you can tell me the meaning of grim.' OoBleck sighed, disappointment in his voice.  
'Very well then. Miss Rose, please, tell me and the class the meaning of grimm. If you are not too busy with your… sketching.' His last word was a dull drol.  
Ruby flicked her eye's around, looking at her team members around her; Yang, her brawler of a sister; Weiss, the heiress who was her partner, and Blake, the ninja-like faunus. Yang was writing on a scrap of paper. Hopefully the answer.  
'Well, eh you see… Grim has more than one meaning.' She didn't sound overly confident. 'One of which is a name? But with an extra 'm', like with Grimm,' Yang passed the scrap without OoBleck noticing. 'Another is...like, worrying to consider something. Oh, like Grimm.'  
OoBleck nodded. 'Whilst Miss Rose is technically correct, there is another more blunt meaning behind their name. As a scholar I have learned many things, one is a knowledge of long dead languages. One teaches us of the word grim. Hear it here and now; fury!'  
OoBleck let silence fill the room. He laughed as he spoke. 'Now then, Miss Xiao Long, might you elaborate on the meaning of fury?' Some, including the brawler.  
'Well, fury is essentially anger.' Yang said, none of the worry her sister had possessed her.  
OoBleck nodded, satisfied with that answer.  
'Very well then now then-' OoBleck was cut out by the ring of a bell, shock marred his face. 'No, however could I have left the time unnoticed. Well, until tomorrow students.'  
In false slowness, the student departed the class for their dorms.

**Well now, that was the first chapter I have written for Remnant. Not going to lie, I am not sure how well I did that. I just hope it was good enough for the break i've given you all, about a week if i am correct. Well, till next time, do enjoy.**


	5. Chapter 5

Hierax studied the navigator. It had said nothing since its capture. It sat cross-legged in its containment cell aboard the _Luna Tenebris_, attention turned inwards. Contemplating, perhaps.  
He reached down, caught the captive by the throat and pressed it against the wall. The force was enough for it to let out a wet whimper. It tried to thrash about like a wounded beast. 'Stop that,' Hierax said, examining it.  
It was female, he thought, given the gentle curving of the bodies shape. It tried to reach its bandana with her hand. 'Do not try that,' he warned. 'For your own sake.'  
Still, there was no need in risking more harm to it. He grabbed a syringe from his operation table and jabbed it into the pale flesh of its too-long neck. The navigator stiffened as the tranquiliser took effect. It slumped in his grasp. It would feel no pain from the coming operation. Hierax had considered the role of sadism in his given function, he had found the appeal to be… negligible. Torture was a useful tool, but only under the right circumstances.  
This was not one of them. After all, why damage a tool that might still prove useful?  
He whistled, and a mouth-stitched serf lurched into the cell, snorting gently. The serf carried a large tray, containing a wide array of tools, scalpels and hack-saws, to a jar containing an augmetic eye. His so-called daemon-eye.  
Heirax was quite pleased with his creation. It had taken him close to five terran-standard years to create this specimen. He looked at the iris. Coloured water-blue. Part of the eye had been grown, taken from a favoured serf. The machinery of it was inscribed with runes that bound a lesser daemon of the Gods.  
He turned back to the navigator. The tranquiliser had done its work. The navigator hung insensate in his grip. He examined the weak-boned creature in his hand. How tempting, he thought. To sing praise to the Primordial Annihilator with its shrieking soul-song.  
'What songs could you sing?' he asked, rolling its neck with his forefinger and thumb. It felt warm, he grinned. He could almost taste the fear of its soul, knowing an apex predator watched it. Though its cage of a body still lived, part swam the Warp. He had heard that the Sons of Magnus called it the Great Ocean. 'How quaint,' he said.  
He eyed the unconscious navigator. He tilted its chin first left then right. 'It is rare that I find myself in possession of a tool such as yourself,' he told navigator. 'I shall put you to good use, in time.'  
Heirax peeled back its eyelid with his free hand. 'But first,' he muttered. The whites of the eye showed. The eyes hardly reacted to the light of the chamber. 'Negligible damage, but nothing to be concerned about,' he turned to the mouth-stitched serf. 'Noth the damage and time.' He turned to his tray, finding the forceps. 'It is a shame,' he said. 'That I am no Apothecary.' The forceps slid towards the eye, cradling it gently. Slowly, carefully, it removed the eye from its socket. The optic nerve was brought into the open air. 'Careful now,' Hierax said to himself. 'Patience, as they say, is a virtue.'  
The mouth-stitched serf nodded.  
When Hierax judged the optic nerve to be stretched to its limit, he cut the nerve with a heated scalpel, cauterising it, preserving what he needed to. He took the eye and dropped it into a preservative rich jar. He lifted the daemon-eye and held it against the navigators empty socket. Veins spread under the skin, reconnecting those that had been severed. A new optic nerve, different in appearance to the first, was already connecting to the remnants of the last. The navigator moaned and twitched in Hierax's grip. Blood dripped from its nose and eyes. Save the third. It started to spasm, nearly hitting the wall. He injected a second dose of tranquiliser, along with muscle and brain relaxants.  
The daemon-eye would allow the navigator to see the same as a normal eye would, but with another, hidden benefit. To Hierax if no one else. If all worked out well, the navigator would be alive after its task was complete. 'Never have it said that I am not merciful,' Hierax said darkly.  
'Apostle - we have arrived.'  
Hierax straightened at the voice of his second-in-command, captain Xelga. 'Good, I will meet you in the embarkation bay, have the _Lord of Conquest_ readied for departure.' He turned to face the mouth-stitched serf. 'Make sure it does not hurt itself or try to remove the eye. Use tranquilisers and relaxants, if those cease to work, then break some bones. That will deter it.'  
The mouth-stitched serf nodded, pleased to be of use to its master. It took so little to please them. Hierax smiled at his work and then departed.  
Xelga and the rest of the retinue were waiting for him in the embarkation bay. The Thunderhawk _Lord of Conquest_ was awakening from its slumber. Slumber. Something was taking horde of the craft, a sign of favour from the Pantheon no doubt. 'Are you sure you do not wish for a larger guard, lord,' Xelga asked, his voice ruined by a perpetuate grating. Like metal grating on metal. His face was broad and lean, like an equine of Old Terra, or creatures he had heard it say the Space Wolves possessed.  
Hierax nodded to his second. 'I am most certain my friend, trust in my decisions as you would the Four. Or have you so little faith in their chosen?'  
Xelga shook his head. 'No. Apologize my lord, I meant no disrespect.'  
'Then none shall be taken, brother. Now, ready yourselves for our task. Our brothers are not known for leaving bread-crumbs for others, not even us, to follow.'  
Hierax hefted his might crozius, marching towards the Thunderhawk. Xelga and five warriors of the Company following in his wake.

**Yes, I known small Chapter I do apologise for that, but I needed to get this out of the way before I actually brought us to the Remnant part. Now you have been introduced to **_**most**_ **of our key characters. So as always, thoughts and criticism are always welcome. And last but not least, Happy New Year.**


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

The _Luna Tenebris _and _Aphrodite_ met in the gulf of space and amidst a graveyard of dead warships. A squadron of smaller vessels clung to the Emperor's Children's warship shadow, guns armed and ready, auspex systems sweeping the debris-rich dark.  
The Word Bearers approached slowly, the strike cruiser singing a litany of praises and blessings as it glided through the void. Their weapons remained deactivated, their shields cold, auspex mute.  
The III Legion outrider ships spread out around them, enclosing them in a protective sphere, so close that if fired upon, the Word Bearers would be unaware of what killed them. The Word Bearers held course. A storm of signals crossed between the two fleets. The dull drone of the Word Bearers greeting echoed in the backwash of everything. Cypher codes were sent and affirmed.  
The Word Bearers halted within thirty kilometers of the _Aphrodite_. The lesser void-craft shifted position, folding into the formation of a leering horned skull, the symbol of the present Word Bearer chapter, the Heralds of Truth. Thrusters fired across the fleet, burning yellow-and red in the dark of the void as they came to a halt.  
Only the _Luna Tenebris_ continued on, like a madman removing his blood-stained clothes to expose the madness beneath. The III Legion void-craft held back, letting the strike cruiser close unescorted. When the _Tenebris_ came to a halt, it did so prow to prow with the _Aphrodite_. Within its hull, Hierax sat in the nightmare soaked gloom. Six warriors of the Heralds accompanied him as they filled the benches, their crimson armour acid-etched with word of power. Xelga sat closest to him. The captain was so still he seemed a statue. The onyx hilt of his power sword was obscured by his fist, clenched titly.  
Hierax felt the _Lord of Conquest_ decelerated suddenly and raised his head. A revertibrating moan filled the Thunderhawk's hold as it slipped into the gravity of the strike cruiser's embarkation bay. Hierax stood, and as one, his retinue rose behind him. The assault ramp released with a bark of gears.  
'The Pantheon shall bless us,' he said.  
'As we offer them sacrifice.'  
Hierax walked down into the light beyond the ramp.  
Xelga and the rest followed behind him at a respectful five paces distance.  
The deck was filled with other craft, Warhawk's and Thunderhawk's, Fire Raptor's and Xiphon's. On either side, a double column of Emperor's Children stood, resplendent in their purple-and-gold power armour. Banners hung above them, a vexilla stood at the end of either column. Beyond them was a host of human retainers and soldiers of their attached Army forges, but secluded from the rest, in their rust-red robes, were the machine-men of the Mechanicum. The True Mechanicum.  
Five legion warriors stood in a group before them. Hierax identified their leader immediately, Centarien.  
'Greetings, Centarien. I have come along way to meet with you.' He said with a false smile.

'Do you really think you can take him?' asked Morug, tapping a quizzical finger on his chin.  
Vek did not look up. 'This is a battle, like any other, I fully intend to win it.'  
Morug glanced at Kravar, who waited, poised and ready. 'He is going to beat you,' The Iron-brother leaned in closer, over the guardrail of the training cage. 'These Ravens, they are not like us. They are fluid, quick, precise-'  
'Yes, and what are we.' Vek interrupted. 'Defiant, stawart, unyielding. I know what I am doing, this Raven has grown soft. He was not at Urgal, he was here, growing soft on his ship as we died. I am merely educating him.'  
'Very well, brother. But don't say that I did not warn you.'  
Vek stepped away from Morug, into the circle that marked their matches limit.  
'When did you last challenge one your brethren to a match?' Kravar's tone was almost accusatory.  
'I haven't since before Isstavan,' Vek said with gritted teeth.  
Kravar lifted the cord and entered the dualling limits. He was wearing a simple tunic and trousers, his hair running lank to his shoulders. His power sword was sheathed at his hip, he drew the blade from its ceremonial sheath slowly. The black metal blade let out less than a whisper as it slid from the sheath into the bare light of the cages. He placed the sheath beyond the cord limit, he turned to face Vek. His eyes, hooded by the dim lightning, were dark and devoid of all human emotion.  
Like Kravar's black-blade, Vek's own weapon remained inactive. It was a simple blade, it felt unfamiliar to him, that was not an uncommon feeling after the events which had led to his discovery of it.  
The cages were silent, Everybody had turned to face the two duelists, it was often that the ship's captain trained before the eyes of his brothers.  
Kravar struck, even for a member of the Legions Astartes, the speed with which he moved was truly astounding. Vek was immediately forced back onto the defensive, back a hand's breadth from the cord as his secondary heart jolted behind his ribs. The next two strikes were slightly slower, almost deliberately so. One stabbing towards his heart, the other for his sword hand.. He managed to parry both with his blade's flat, the force of the blows ringing hollowly. The third strike would have opened his chest to the bow had Kravar not pulled it at the last moment.  
'Again,' the Raven said, his eyes hard. Vek reassumed his stance, blade held horizontal and low.  
This time, when Kravar came at him he countered. It made little difference. The ship captain let Vek's lunge past and was inside his guard in a heartbeat, his blade's flat kissed the bare skin of the Iron Hand's throat.  
'Again,' said Kravar. Now a demand. For long hours would this scene continue on four several more hours.

An angel of old lay fallen and broken.  
Arvek, Chaplain of the Word Bearers, brother-confessor to those who called him brother, looked at the chipped, weathered face of the statue and grimaced. It was not a good omen.  
Clad in the armour of his calling, Arvek was a darker figure amongst the desecrated shrine building. His face was hidden by a skull-helm, his eyes glowed red through the eye-lenses. Auspex scans had indicated no clear threat within the crumbling temple, but the Chaplain was not known for taking unnecessary risks, he held the tools of his trade in his hands, bolt pistol in the left, crozius in the right.  
The continuous smoke and wildfires of The Purge blotted the nights sky outside the broken walls and the depths of the nave were pitch-black. Despite this, Arvek was easily able to navigate around the toppled statue with the use of his armours auro-senses, his already enhanced sight and hearing refined even further. Audio pick-ups conveyed the pulverisation of rubble under foot as his brothers spread out around him.  
Each suit was unique, making each suits owner easily discernible. Such as the ruin rich greves of Ceron, or the reinforced studs that strengthened the pauldrons of Anamel's armour. On the left shoulder each bore a single symbol, a book with an open page aflame.  
Two brothers Khurel and Zuma, were armed with immense power axe's, capable of slicing through an Astartes power armour, a fact that had been proven numerous times during The Purge, paired with twin-barreled combi-bolters that could lay down a hail of explosive bolts in devastating bursts. Their leader, Sergeant Berckan, bore a power sword as a mark of rank as well as a wrist-mounted flamer. Brother Anamel was the squad specialist, bearing with him a meltagun, whilst Ceron bore a bolter.  
They were the elite of Arvek's retinue, each the vetrean of a hundred them had been given the honour of accompanying their Chaplain in his personal objective, in his examination of the Temple of the Stormwalker.  
The basilica had once been the pinnacle of this world's religious devotion. Now it was a near-empty hall, stained glass windows shattered, tapestries ridden with lacerations.  
'Move on,' Arvek said, his voice like glacier's skidding on scree. 'There is nothing here for us.'  
'As you command, lord Chaplain,' Berckan said. He lowered his weapon and the Chaplains retinue followed on. Leaving him to his own devices.  
+Who are you?+ Arvek said, muscles locking up.  
I am the Oath-breaker.  
+Who are you+  
Please, do not kill me.  
+Who are you+  
\+ **I am the Abyssal Prince+**  
+Why are you here?+ A perverse sickness filled Arvek.  
**+I am your past, and your future. I am your revelations. I am truth.+  
**+Great Abyssal Prince, I ask you. Share with me your illuminating wisdom Arvek thought-sent, blood trickled from his nose.  
**+The shattered moon, a land of grim beasts. A tide of madness, the veil of Chaos pierced. A Legion of shattered sons, a Bearer of the Word, bedecked in honours of the Four. A peacock in gilded ash, this is your future.+  
**Red and black blotches circled Arvek's vision. But a word, no, a planets name, was visible before him. A perverse smile broke across his face.

Sharax stood around the table, he said. 'Tell me, brother, what is the name of this world you believe we can find respite upon.'  
Phaekrel opened his eyes, looking the Raven Guard captain in the eyes. 'I believe its name is Remnant, captain Sharax. Somewhere on the edge of Segmentum Tempestus.'  
'Then it is to Remnant we journey, let this word be either our salvation or our grave.'  
'Let us hope then,' said the Salamanders Sergeant. 'That it is salvation.'

**Greetings, one and all. It is I the Jam. I know it has been a long wait, and I am sorry for the wait and the quality of this Chapter. But currently life is getting **_**hectic**_ **if that is what you would like to call it. But yes, from now on the wait for Chapters will be much longer than it was. Possibly two-three weeks, but only at worst, I hope. But, till next time, please enjoy.**


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Xelga got to his knees, with rasping breathes. A ship gun-crew overseer staggered towards him, perhaps trying to assist the captain. The uniform was not one he had seen on the _Tenebris_. It was a III Legion uniform, an Emperor's Children ship overseer. Why was he on the gun-deck of a III Legion vessel? More importantly, where was Hierax.  
He shoved the overseer away from him, hearing the mortal whimper in what might have been pain or fear. He rose, then turned, taking in the gun-deck at his full height. The gun-deck was hung like a forest of cables and support stanchions.  
Something big had clearly been detonated, enough to rip the grav-plating in this area long enough to scatter vast munitions cases, and enough to knock the captain unconscious. The ship was a strike cruiser, meaning something of equal classification had attacked it.  
His first thought was of the _Tenebris_. He flung it from his mind. That was inconceivable. Hierax had plans for the Emperor's Children legionaries, he would not risk their deaths for a useless cause. Not here, not now.  
A second alternative was that they had been attacked. Not improbable, but unlikely. They had been encased in a ring of iron. A fleet of escort craft had flanked the _Aphrodite_, a hidden ship? Infiltration. Perhaps.  
He could see the gun-crew slaves getting back into position, many limped, many more didn't move. Perhaps a dozen. Not likely to be any more.  
Xelga looked at the overseer, his words a cold-blooded hiss.  
'What is the damage?' he demanded.  
'Signifiant,' he said, voice a melancholic tune. 'Guns going to need replacing, or they could just scrap it.'  
'Did you get a salvo off?'  
The overseer pointed towards the gun-crew, removing a magazine from their charge, replacing it with another. 'It would seem so.'  
So we were attacked, he thought to himself. He breathed in, smelling acrylic and fyceline, not uncommon on a gun-deck, it was, to him, a nice smell. He walked towards the exit of the gun-deck, he hadn't made it far when… whatever had caused the damage had occurred.  
He pushed, hand reaching for his weapon, uncertainty and a lone duty guiding him. Find Hierax.

The level directly aft of the plasma generators are dark lit only by a strobe light of red, casting Galen in a dark mood, represented his mood well. He was without his shield, he felt reduced without it. It was part of him, just like his sword-arm. His armour was in good condition, repaired after the damage of Isstvan and the following extermination duties he had been assigned. He knows his companions feel the same, his squad mates, he had been with them in the sparring cages, as was common for them. They had been dismissed after the Word Bearers arrival.  
'Up ahead,' says one of his squad, a young-blade called Neulon, one side of his head was a gleaming augment. Clockwork gears sounded from his skull.  
Galen did not respond. He Had already heard what the young-blade had, his hearing had improved since Laer.  
He knew what they were facing as they rounded a corner, a dead serf was slumped against the wall, his chest an empty cavern. Bolt-round, effective.  
They hurry, their boots heels dripping blood. Bodies are everywhere, slumped and doubled-over, each sharing the same kill-marking. They had killed a lot of menials, not surprising, an unaugmented human was no threat to a legionary.  
They entered a rectangular chamber. A boltgun roared out, flashing vividly with bolt-round's spanking across the walls. Galen was hit once - in the left pauldron, the bolt had ripped a fair chunk of armour from him, enough still remained to protect him. He returned fire, three bolts snapped out as his brothers joined him. He heard a muted roar from the side of his would-be killer, he held his sword to pause his brothers.  
Two brothers - Neulon and another named Saur - followed close behind as the rest spread out. He barely broke stride. He saw the Salamander stagger back against the wall, his armour riddled by craters. His wounds were not clotting like they were meant to. Galen took note of his armour markings, 66th Company, the sergeant smiled. His armour was not the muted-jade of his Legion, it was as black as the sand of Isstvan.  
'Very good,' Galen said, voice barely above a whisper. 'You did well to conseale yourself s long, how is that?'  
The legionary tried to bring himself back up, hand scrabbling for a blade. He was trying to speak, a word, a name.  
'Speak up,' Galen said, raising his voice to convey his impatience.'  
'Vulkan… Lives...' The Salamander rasped.  
'Didn't you hear,' he taunted. 'We killed him. Hacked him to pieces.'  
Galen's bolt pistol barked once.

Nicholan was still fighting, he had been amongst the first into action, rallying his warrior's against their hidden enemies. He took whoever he could find, none were of his squad, but they followed him, they knew him. He was Nicholan, the red-blade, the war-dog. His red-dyed hair spun wildly as his chainsword danced like a butcher's blade. His companies carried a wide array of weaponry, they bore boltgun's, melta's, flamer's and a dozen other weapons.  
It was a brave thing to board the Aphrodite, braver still to hide aboard it. The enemy fought in kill-teams, they linked up and targeted areas of minor to not insignificant importance. Already they had tried to strike at the void shields and command deck.  
Nicholan shoved forward, shoving into a crumpled hatch. The chamber beyond had the greatest number of the invaders - seventeen of them, he counts, far less than his own combat-unit. Isolated from any surviving brothers, they were determined to die standing.  
He cried out a challenge as he leapt into them. Some - the Fire-born - are chanting, two words repeating in rhythm as their boltgun's set out a steady tattoo. 'Vulkan Lives..' Vulkan Lives…'  
It seemed to empower them, to give them strength as they are cut down. They were skilled and committed, moving fast as they were drawn into a bitter melee. He saw one jump over a corpse as he emptied his bolter into a lone legionary, he dicared the weapon and drew his blade as the corpse collapsed.  
But the Iron Hand was fighting a losing battle, like his father the Gorgen, he was decapitated with a beautiful coup de grace. Crixus got the killing blow, Nicholan followed the blade fall. He watched as arterial fluid sprayed across the warriors mono-slit eye-lense. For a moment he thought he heard the swordsmen giggle, he shrugged it off as a misinterpreted death groan from another kill-team member.  
'The Gorgon,' Nicholan called out. 'The Fire Drake and the Raven. Do you know what all have in common? They are dead. Just as you, their sons will be soon.'  
A Raven Guard leapt at him from the shadows, sable armour absorbing the light, sweeping a blade down, one-handed. He was nearly as fast as Nicholan, but the old war-dog was still not done yet. The Raven misses, bringing Nicholan into his guard, a fatal mistake. Nicholan clasped his hand around his neck, he squeezed, letting the neck break with a wet-snap.  
The rest of the kill-team were dead now, soon to be stripped of their arms-and-armour. More of his brothers arrived, including his squad mates. The sergeant smiled, he was proud of them.  
Galen was here too. Young Galen, Nicholan's unspoken successor. The morning-dawn to his fading twilight. The young sergeant was accompanied by his squad-mates, or most of them at least.  
'It is a mess,' Galen said. 'I am truly amazed that they hid for so long, especially them,' he said, pointing to the warriors of the Iron Tenth.  
'I believe the Raven's sons had a hand in that.' Nicholan gestured to his latest kill. 'Though the Fire-born clearly make out the bulk of them. That lieutenant-commander of theirs, he was smarter than we thought.'  
'Have you seen Centarien,' he continued. 'I can't seem to contact him.'  
'No, last I knew he was with the Word Bearer, Hierax.'  
'Well then,' said the war-dog. 'Seems we have a captain to find.'

'Throne welp!'  
Xelga was seldom given to such an emotional expression, but this was an exception to the rule.  
A strong, determined fuselage was his greetings from the Loyalist Legionary. Red beams of light passed by his head, searing heat emanating from the old weapon, a volkite caliver then. Well equipped, for a suicide mission. When nothing followed up, he pushed onwards, blade drawn for the kill.  
He barged into him, shoulder-first, sending him to the ground. Two quick stabs to the primary heart would see him dead easily, but for effect he crunched his head under-foot, spraying blood from the stump of his head.  
He was aft of the enginarium, according to the cartholige. He had to head more to port, that would bring him closer to the bridge, and from there, Hierax. He continued on.  
The blood-drenched warriors who came at him next seemed more like the sons of Angron, then the sons of the Gorgon.  
Clad in beaten up war-plate, both hands were made of black iron, they were truly worthy of their name. Both had mono-slit eye lenses over their eyes, almost glued to the skin by a fusion of meat-and machine, plasma burns.  
The first to hit the captain was the most scarred, it was puckered with studs and a story of scars. His neck was slightly visible, it looked more like a canister than the bull-neck he must have once possessed. He was slow, a simple thrust of Xelga's blade was enough to kill him.  
The second was larger, much larger; he was broad-shoulder and easily a head taller than the captain. Xelga bashed his vambrace int him, staggering the Hand. Pressing his bolt pistol to his arm, he fired almost point-blank. A red misted floated in the closed confines of the hallway. Content with his two newest kills, Xelga pressed on.

'Lock shields!'  
The order had come from Nicholan, but they had already began to form up.  
It was an old tactic, but a good one at that. In a normal boarding action, it would be the attackers using it to spread the wound, not the defenders. It would work. There was no doubt in Galen's mind that such a thing was true.  
The power-armoured warriors that came at the Children next would be the last to do so, one final clean-up. One final battle for these brave fools.  
An assault marine went down fast, a two-handed blade cutting through him. From clavicle to hip. He seemed almost to split at the seams. His attacker was obliterated, a concentrated volley of bolt-fire ripped him and his armour into shreds.  
Galen almost evaporated a legionaries skull with his bolt-round, a shame then that his lower jaw still hung limply as he collapsed backwards.  
Nicholan was at the front. Killing with a fierce abandone, he taunting the boarders. A good target, anger them and watch as their composure breaks as they lash out.  
A strong push from the Children saw them advance, asr blades danced, their shields split for their sharp-shooters to pick targets of opportunity. Their enemy yielded to them, giving ground without choice, but then threw away their last ditch defence in a final ferrous charge.  
Galen almost laughed as he killed with a wild abandon, this was no battle of honour, this was a one-sided slaughter.  
'Galen,' the shout went out. 'Its Cenatarien, he's at the embarkation deck.' Nicholan said, pulling away from the last of the battle.  
'Go then, I can clean up here.'  
With a nod, the old sergeant went off.

The maul fell.  
Nicholan charged forwards, trampling the bodies of dead serfs and mangled servitors as the dreadnought reald. Centarien was at its back, a melta-flask had melted its engine-stack as it keeled over to Hierax blow.  
'So then, Captain Centarien,' the Apostle said with a calmness unbecoming of his near-death experience. 'Have we reached an agreement on the matter?'  
Nicholan's captain turned, his ivory features covered with a fine layer of blood and soot. 'Apostle Hierax, it seems I have little other choice. If what you say is true, then we must crush these Loyalist lap-dogs.'  
With a cold relish Nicholan heard easily, Hierax chuckled. 'Yes, we most certainly must.'

**Hello everyone, that is the longest Chapter I've made in a while. And to boot, I think it turned out rather well. Giving some of the supporting characters a bit of the spotlight and all Now, I want to do a poll of sorts. I want you to decide on the next chapter, will it b one focusing on the Loyalist of Sharax and Atrex's lot, or on the world of Rwby.  
Choose wisely now, and please, enjoy this Chapter as you have all these before it. Thank you all, Jam.**


	8. Chapter 8 Interval

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

At her side, Yang used her gauntlet-shotguns to disembowel a leaping beowulf, blasting inky-black skin and bone into the face of those following it.  
Ruby gave one a keen backhand blow with the flat of Crescent Rose's blade, her scythe turning in her dextrous hand, weaving a trail of cuts and lacerations from its neck to nave. It sank to the forest floor with a loud crack, leaving inky marks on the roots.  
Already, Blake and Weiss would be swinging left to strike the rear-guard of the Grimm pack. But as the pack drew closer to the forest's edge, larger more menacing Grimm began to appear.  
Ruby saw two hulking forms as they burst from the rolling tide of black, bear-shaped things that stormed towards the two Huntresses' in training, each one roaring wildly. Their stubby arms ended in razor-like claws, teeth the equal of any other predator creature opened and closed in inhuman motions. The hulking forms were those of Ursa, a tragic mimicry of the mighty Bear.  
The first strike came in a flash of quick moves. The young leader of team RWBY spun Crescent Rose around to invert the gun-scythe and run the head along the bark and grass of the floor. The younger girl dashed towards the closest Ursa, petals and sparks trailing her and the scythe. She closed the distance in the blink of an eye, and Crescent rose in a wide arc.  
Ruby pushed down as her gun-scythe cut the Grimm natly in two. Momentum kept the bear-beast struggling forwards as it opened like an oversized peniata, belching up black smoke and fragments in a violent frenzy.  
The second Grimm leapt at the brawler of team RWBY from across a small ford, burning eyes leering at the enthusiastic blonde.  
'Yang,' Ruby called out. 'Watch out!'  
Another, smaller creature leapt upon the blonde. Its paws ended in ferouscius, curved claws. It was bigger than a normal Beowulf, but still smaller than Ursa. Spiked bone-plate was riveted, scarred by past battles. Yang was stuck. Brace for the Ursa, and be left for the wulf. Turn to the wulf, and be mauled by the Ursa.  
A wall rose from the forest floor, tree bark, leaves and mud, all became as tough as brick and mortar before the Alpha Beowulf. 'Now students,' came a chastising voice. 'What have a told you all about getting distracted.' Professor Peach said, raising from her crouch behind the girls.  
'Now then, by my examination of things. The horde has already been crushed. I think we can leave it to the Heiress and Belladonna. So, shall we crack on with our job?'  
The girls nodded.

**Incredibly short, I know. I just felt that we needed something to fill in the time, anyway, next Chapter will be on our Loyalists boys. Till next time, I've been Jam.**


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

Somehow, after the Isstvan Atrocity, they had become friends, Phaeton of the Iron Hands, black-and-silver in the colours of his armour and bionic replacements, and Narkra of the Salamanders, clad in the jade-and-ivory of his Legion and the Apothecarium.  
They had become closer after the council had been convinced. Both were the seconds of their respective Legion representatives. Their conversations had started over the application of their newest munitions, Phaeton had suggested they outfit the ad-hoc with the heavier weapons they had acquired, including the rare and deadly rad missiles they now stockpiled. Narkra had called for a more 'clandestine' application of their new weaponry. His had been a Legion that had never been fond of those most hazardous of weapons.  
Their discussions had become more friendly in recent times. Phaeton had talked off Medusa and the trials he had endured to join the Legion, he had spoken of how he had slayen the ork Warboss Gitthrasa. Narkra spoke of Nocturn and of his fathers', the mortal had been named Draven, a man of good humor. Vulkan, the Lord of Drakes, he spoke of as if he still lived, he spoke of him with pride only a soon could know.  
They had grown accustomed to each other's presence. Phaeton had begun to enjoy the overly-optimistic nature of the Fire-born. Narkra had accepted the cold logic of the Gorgon's son.  
'Oraanus,' Phaeton said in his metallic voice. 'Good memories, I find solace in those ones. I remember once, climbing as high as I could to escape my hunter, a Yarrk, nasty creatures. Mind you, I had bested one of them even before my ascension.'  
There was a smile across Phaeton's face, or what was left of it. Rarely did he smile.  
'It was a nasty beast, gave me this.' He pointed to a pale scar that ran across his neck. 'But trust me, it came off far worse than I did.'  
Narkra nodded. 'Let me tell you then of Nocturn.' And so, Narkra did so.

Fyfe had never enjoyed the company of others, not even that of his own Legion brothers. Being paired with the Raven Guard, Korros, had amplified that fivefold. Fytfe had been assigned the role of quartermaster because he was precious and efficient, all thinks the little Raven seemed incapable of being.  
The Raven was brass and hot-headed, young and impertinent. For whatever reason known only to himself, Iron Father Atrex had forced the boy upon Fyfe. Perhaps, just maybe, the Iron Father saw it as a task that only Fyfe was fit for. To forge the little Raven into a precious and efficient weapon.  
Unlikely, there were a plentitude of others amongst the legionaries capable of that task. The Raven Guard themselves, by far the most obvious choice could easily break the young warrior in. Even amongst his own brothers, Fyfe could think of others more capable than he for such a task. Atrex himself, the failure of an Iron Hand Phaeton who could not even protect the great Ferrus Manus, his Sergeant and squad brothers Otic, Benzor and Ketta, and then there were the Salamanders.  
'Old man,' came the chirping voice of Korros, the Raven had snuck up on him once again. 'Captain Sharax wants that report on the newly acquired war-plate, have you finished compiling it?'  
Fyfe turned to the young legionary, examining him with dim red cybernetic eyes. Korros was of the taller variety of Atartes, lean even by most Legion's standards, almost like a wild tribesmen of the White Scars. His eyes were glassy black pits in snow-white skin, darkened only by his lank hair.  
'Affirmative,' Fyfe responded, pulling a data-slate from beneath another. 'Six suits of Mark II power armour, in optimal condition. Another-'  
'I know, I did the inventory as well, Fyfe.' Korros interrupted.  
'I am aware of this,' Fyfe said before the Raven could continue. 'I am merely confirming the logs.'  
Korros smiled, that annoyed Fyfe. 'My apologies then, Fyfe.' Korros' use of his name further annoyed the Iron Hand. 'Well then old man, I'll be seeing you around.' With one last smile Korros departed.  
With a dark glare, Fyfe followed the Raven's departure.

The walls between the Materium and Immaterium weakened. A great sphere was born in the void, from it a spear of blocky dark metal was shot free, trailed only by ectoplasm and madness. With a shudder, the strike cruiser _Shadow of Deliverance_ arrived in the Remnant System.  
**  
Well boys and girls, its official we are here, welcome to the Remnant System, populace more than it was a few moments ago. Sadly another small chapter, I truly regret not just making this part of Chapter seven, then I could get to the fun stuff a lot faster. But don't worry, things should get back on track soon enough. Emperor willing. Till next time, I have been Jam.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

From the _Shadow of Deliverance_ Remnant looked like many other worlds; a globe of green and blue, streaked with swirling grey set against the black of the void. One thing distinguished Remnant from many other worlds, the moon, or what was left of it, was a shattered circle, a plate that had been thrown to the ground in a rage.

Ozpin watched from his tower-top office, examining the student body as he often did in times such as these. It was calm, almost melancholically so.  
The stars shun in the sky, gliding past the moon he had come to know long ago. He remembered when first he had seen his precious moon sundered, how after all that had happened he had been left with a ruined world.  
No.  
He pushed the thought from his mind. Such thoughts were little more than a prelude to agony know.  
His scroll began a soft melody, slowly turning into a ping, ping, ping, as he answered the call.  
'_Ozpin_,' the voice was strong and clear, it was one that made the Headmaster smile slightly.  
'James_,_' Ozpin replied.  
'A_tlesian satellites are picking something up in high-orbit of Beacon_,' concern marred Ironwoods words. '_Please, tell me this is something that you are responsible for.'_  
Ozpin's silence was deafening. For a moment, just a moment, Ozpin hoped. Have they returned? He thought.  
'No, James,' Ozpin said, calming his voice with rehearsed ease. 'This is not anything of my doing.'  
A crackle fuzzed Ironwood's next words. '_We have something moving on long-range radar, heading for you and Beacon._' There was a pause from Ironwood. '_I can't scramble an intercept, not in time at least. I can set a course in for you immediately_.'  
Ozpin nodded. 'I believe that would be an excellent idea. How long will it take for you to arrive?'  
'_Accounting for course correction and current speed, six, maybe seven hours_.'  
'Ok, James, I will try to get whatever is coming here to stay until you get here.'  
The scroll-call ended.

The north-eastern most landing pad of Beacon Academy was crowded by onlookers. Atop the pad, a blocky stub winged and square-prow aircraft rested. Its black-hullls still growing golden-red with the heat of re-entry.  
Foremost amongst the onlookers was Team RWBY, or the team's leader Ruby Rose at the least.  
'They have to be aliens!' Ruby exclaimed, shrieking her words in joy.  
'No, they are not.' Weiss said dispassionately.  
'Then what are they? Oh, maybe em, space explorers.'  
Weiss shook her head in disappointment. 'No, because the only Kingdom experimenting in space travel in Atlas, and that is only the theory, not the practical.'  
'Sure…' Ruby said. 'You know alot about this, not alien Weiss.'  
Weiss spoke, uncaring about the last three words. 'Why of course I am, after all, the SDC is the lead organisation involved in space travel.'  
Movement from the craft came without warning. One thick door at the rear slammed down creating a ramp lowered by whining pneumatics. Between gasps of nervous breathing, the student body of Beacon Academy watched at what came out of the craft.  
The first of the "space explorers" stepped down from the craft, scanning the crowd as four more followed. Ruby stared at the figure, her eyes narrowing on every part of its strange armour.  
Her breath stuck in her throat.  
The stranger was a giant, his heavy armour was that of an ancient knight, lacquered as black as space, only the skulls of birds decorated his armour. The left shoulder guard was adorned by a depiction of a raven. Its eyes were lenses that peered into Ruby's soul as it passed over her.  
A sixth appeared, this one bare-headed. His armour was more richly wore badges on his armor, along with the avian skulls, his right shoulder guard bore a scroll which Ruby could not read. At his hip was an oversized gun and two-handed sword.  
He went bare-headed, exposing his almost inhuman features. Close-cropped black hair sat atop a crown of alabaster skin in which were held eyes of black glass. Only the scar running from jaw-to-ear discoloured his flesh.  
Others followed. These ones bore iron hands on their shoulders and iron-linked chainmail over their charcoal-black war-plate. They were far more plain then the first six, each sported silver limbs. Then came the twelfth giant.  
His head was clean-shaven, eyes of amber glass were buried in pits of leathery skin. His armours left knee bore a symbol Ruby could not make out. This one had a machine arm like the five other hands, ending at his flesh-elbow.  
Two more came down the ramp, one in muted jade and pearly white armour, both bearing a black lizard-head icon on their shoulders.  
The one in pure jade who went helmless elicited gasps, he nodded with a concolling smile. His skin was rough onyx-black, eyes pits of magma.  
The leader of the raven bearing warriors spoke first, voice laced with an unknown accent and icy smooth. 'People of this world, hear me. I am Sharax of the Raven Guard, these are Atrex of the Iron Hands and Tarsha of the Salamanders, we would speak with your leaders.'  
Ruby whispered to Weiss. 'So, not aliens.'

**Afterword. I have little to say besides the fact I went through this Chapter about a half dozen times. So, this partially shows the RWBY cast reacting to the WH lot. Next Chapter will go through them coming to Remnant, then the chapter after that will be shared.  
Please eview, especially when on the matter of characterisation. Till next time, I've been Jam.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven.**

_Shadow Stalker_ came down upon Beacon Academy.  
Aboard the Thunderhawk gunship, fourteen warriors of Three shattered Legions waited to disembark their craft. Warriors, both old and young, were clad in armour the colours of the Raven Guard, Iron Hands and Salamanders, sat in their restraints. The screech of the engines echoed in the hold. The three groups spoke across Legion-specific vox-links. A fourth ne had been established, but that was for another time that was soon approaching.  
Captain Sharax studied the other passengers - his own warriors bearing stripped-down weapons and adorned with corvidae skulls, the Hands with their gleaming augments, the two Salamanders, the two of any seniority, clad in muted-jade, or a mix of pearly white and jade for the last.  
The captain was wondering what they were speaking about amongst themselves. If they were anything like his five brothers, they were discussing matters ascertaining to their own Legion and past experiences compared to their newfound reality.  
Shadow Stalker shuddered slightly as klaxon sound, alerting the passengers of their descent coming to an end. Sharax's vox-link opened to the pilot, informing him of their successful entry into the atmosphere.  
Sharax leaned back into his restraint. Tracking their descent he said, 'Acknowledged. Defences?' It was not uncommon to find worlds which atmospheric airspace was constantly watched by both primitive, and cogitator-slaved weapon-systems.  
'_Negative, captain Sharax. Unless you count a clocktower._' The pilot said, his dry humour was welcome but duly ignored.  
'I do not, Brother Koris. But it is duly noted.'  
The vox clicked off and the gunship continued to descend.  
Sharax checked his internal chronometer, by the estimate of the data-savant's and lexmechanic aboard his strike cruiser, this world's own time was in lock-step in Terra's own, save a few seconds discretion.  
'They have no defences?' Asked the youngest legionary present, Olus.  
'Unlikely. Perhaps they sign that no threat would approach this city. Through a wall does surround it, presumably some feudal hold-over.'  
The warrior who answered was Korphaal.  
Sharax reached for his helmet, he removed it with a hiss of pressurised air.  
'Brothers, we are nearly at the designated landing site. Korphaal, Olus, take point. If it does not bother our cousin-legionaries, we shall take point.'  
Atrex nodded, whilst Tarsha said, 'You shall have no objection from I or Narkra.'  
Sharax bodyguard formed up, taking their assigned positions their formation was that of a two column three row unit including the captain.  
'Status on the landing site?' Atrex asked, pulling his restraints over his head.  
The pilot's clipped voice entered the hold. '_It is clear for now. I expect our landing to bring some attention to us._'  
Atrex accepted this with silence.  
The compartment shuddered again as the gunship touched down. The echo of the engines cycling down was high, the hiss of the landing gears tumbling out was faint.  
'Hold for now, brothers. Best we give their leaders time to arrive.' Sharax said.  
When the ramp came down, Korphaal was the first to step out, followed by Olus.  
Sharax tooked to the ramp with fluid movements, his glassy eyes scanning the crowd before him. None seemed older than their late teen's. Was this an educational facility? he thought. Then he looked closer, some bore weapons. Perhaps a training ground. He noticed how some had eye and hair colour's that were not common amongst most humans, a mild mutation most likely.  
The Hands came after him. The Terminator, Phaeton, had been left aboard the strike cruiser in the event of attack he would lead the counter-attack besides Kravar.  
Atrex stepped down from the ramp. Sharax paid him no mind, though he could tell the Iron Father had little love for those whose eyes he caught.  
The Salamanders were the last to reveal themselves. Tarsha received gasped at his appearance. His was one which sent terror through mortals, glowering red eyes encased in rough onyx-skin, some called his legion daemon's in human skin. His response to them was measured, a small nod of his head.  
Sharax stepped forwards to address the crowd, he spoke low gothic with the accent of his home. 'People of this world, hear me. I am Sharax of the Raven Guard, these are Atrex of the Iron Hands and Tarsha of the Salamanders, we would speak with your leaders.'

**Afterword, not much to say besides this is the mirror to the last Chapter. Reviewer response though. Evinco, no to the warp, brothers, well we will see. 3412, yep Salamander and Iron Hand, well no brain-ghost Ferrus yet so were all good. I plan to fix it up in the coming months. So, till next time, I've been Jam.**


	12. Chapter 12 Beacon

**Chapter Twelve**

Sharax saw the crowd bristle at his words. He caught the eye of a defiant red-haired woman, then the weakness of a blonde boy.  
Tarsha stepped forwards to speak. 'Please,' he said, his tone measures. 'We mean no harm to you, dear people. We wish only to discuss with your leaders, if such a thing can be arranged.'  
A man with silvered hair approached the assembled warrior. 'I am Ozpin, the Headmaster of Beacon Academy. I am also one of the members of my nation's government.'  
Sharax nodded. 'How senior are you?'  
The man spoke after a moment. 'I sit on the council, the highest office in Vale.'  
'Very well, Ozpin of Vale. May we then have a meeting with you and this council?'  
Ozpin seemed to ponder the question for a minute. 'If you can wait, perhaps a half day, then yes.'  
'We can agree to those terms,' said Atrex. 'Though we request to stay as we wait.'  
Ozpin nodded. 'That can be arranged. Please, follow me.'  
As Atrex, Tarsha and Nakra followed after the headmaster, Sharax spoke to the guard dietail. 'Korphaal, watch-pattern decum. Stand easy.'  
'Acknowledged, captain.' The five Ravens broke off to stand at the edges and ramp of the Thunderhawk, marking the officials limits of the Astartes jurisdiction. The Iron Hands formed up in a more rigid formation. It was a show of force, anything more than that was, as they said, in the eye of the beholder.  
'This is now the most expertly and disciplined guard force on this planet.' Atrex said to Sharax as Ozpin led the way. Sharax nodded, even as he examined the crowd and the grand door that would most likely lead into the Academy.  
'We won't need to worry about any curious individuals now, will we?' He said.  
'If you say so,' Atrex muttered.  
'Easy to say, with your warriors at hand, Iron Father.'  
Atrex snorted a chuckled, causing the Headmaster to glance at him.  
'Please gentlemen, let me show you my Academy. I wish to fill the wait with something… satisfactory.'

Ruby Rose, leader of Team RWBY, watched as four giants followed Headmaster Ozpin.  
'Okay, well this is happening.' She said nervously. 'So who wants to talk to some, Raven Guard?'  
Weiss looked at her dumbfounded. 'You must be joking,' she said. 'We can not just g waltzing up to them. I mean, look at them. They tower over even Yatsumashi and look at their guns, look at their armour. Archaic and blunt yes, but most certainly impressive.'  
Ruby grumbled at this. 'Oh, giant guns and swords. Look at them Weiss!' She exclaimed, shaking the Heiress of the SDC. 'We have to talk to them Weiss. Imagine it, first contact with extra-extraterrestrials. Is that how you say it? Ah, space men will do.'  
'Yang,' Weiss called. 'Could you please explain to your sister why this is a bad idea.'  
'I mean, what could really go wrong? The guys with the birds-'  
'-The Raven Guard.' Weiss interjected.  
'Ye, ye. Look. The Raven lot seem more lax than the Hand guys. So, maybe we try talking with them. If not, nothing gained nothing lost. Am I right.'  
'Fine,' Weiss finished her complaining.

'And this gentlemen,' Ozpin said. 'Is the Amphithertere.'  
The chamber the Headmaster presented was, to Atrex mind, hardly worth such a grand name. It was designed like a floored pit, benches were set in five tiers, each barely having enough leg-space for an un-armoured Astartes.  
The pit itself was perhaps fifteen-by-fifteen meters. It held no cages or visible weapon racks, sand or dirt. If Atrex were a mad-dog of the XII he might have rampaged at the disgrace of an Amphithertere. Instead he said, 'This is your Amphitheretere?'  
'Yes,' Ozpin said almost perplexed. 'What were you expecting, one of those ancient tournament grounds of dirt and sand?'  
'Correct,' Atrex rumbled. 'Those are worthy of the name, this is at best a sparring cage, minus the fencing to keep combatants together.'  
Ozpin seemed to stand straighter at this. 'Well, this is only a training ground. We try to keep our students safe.'  
'You say it is a training ground,' Sharax interjected. 'What for. If I may be permitted to ask.'  
'This world is infested with creatures of Grimm, great beasts which hunt and kill humanity and faunes. We train our students to become Huntsmen and Huntresses to combat Grimm.' The Headmaster answered.  
'So you suggest that to train your students they be coddled?' Atrex asked before continuing. 'You would not expose them to the reality of it all, you would have them trained away from these beasts, these Grimm. You would pit them against one another and not the Grimm?'  
Tarsha interjected before Ozpin could speak. 'Though I can see an advantage to such a method of training, I also see the downsides to your, shall we say, protective method.'  
Ozpin shook his head. 'What then, to become warrior's, did each of you undergo then?'  
Sharax spoke first. 'United, we will all sliced open and implanted with nineteen new organs, allowing us to become who we are now. Before that, my world was a penal colony. We were born into prison servitude because of crimes our great-grandparents or longer before had committed. My people rose up, we thought and died, young, old. I was born into war.'  
Atrex spoke next. 'My world is not easy either. Medusa is a cruel world, uncaring of us humans. Famine, clan-conflicts, disease and wild beats, all kill many before even their tenth birthday, as you would likely refer to it. My people are born into strife, we are made strong by it. We are forged into the being we must be to survive.'  
Tarsha spoke for he and Nakra. 'Before the Lord of Drakes, my liege-lord and gene-sire freed my people, we were taken as slaves by foul xenos. Dark Eldar. My people were born into fear and struggle. Then we were raised by Vulkan, my lord. Though even after this, the lava-lakes and salamanders for which we are named still plague many.'  
Ozpin nodded slowly. 'I apologise, I had no idea what sorts of world you had all hailed from.'

Ruby Rose, daughter of Tai Xiao-Long and Summer Rose, was the first of Beacon Academies students to speak with the Astartes.  
To say it went smoothly would be a lie.  
'Hello!' She said cheerfully, if nervously. 'Hi, I'm Ruby.'  
The Raven Guard stared at her blankly. 'Return to the crowd, you are permitted only to approach the ramp, nothing beyond.'  
Ruby continued on. 'That's a cool gun you got there. Mind if I see?'  
'You can already see it, child.'  
'I mean, em. See, like look over it.' Ruby paused as Weiss sulked behind her, thinking what she had done to witness this. 'So can I inspect your gun.'  
The Raven placed his gun at his hip. 'Your name is Ruby, correct.' The girl nodded. 'Ruby, please return to the crowd. I can and will not show you my bolter. So please, return to the crowd.'  
Internally Korphaal slightly died at the forced nicety.  
'Fine,' Ruby sulked.  
In the end, the little girl was beaten by a Raven.

**Afterword. I really hope the joke at the end lands with you all. Anyway, this is my experimentation with RWBY proper. Hopefully, and I mean that, it went well. Till next time, I've been Jam.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

'What was that about Medusa?' asked Sharax sub-vocally. 'I had believed that you originally hailed from Terra itself.'  
Atrex took in a deep breath before he answered his Raven mirror. 'I believe it best not to inform him of the state of the Coreworld. Think of it, think if you lived on a world, which, by comparison to the three our Legions hail from, is an emerald jewel. If they knew of the rad-wastes, desert-oceans and ghost cities that dot Terra, then would they wish to join us. Would they wish not to preserve their world, for fear of a repetition of Terra's state.' There was an edge to Atrex words, a pain which he did not wish to share.  
'I understand,' Sharax said. 'For the coldness of your Legion, you are remarkably human, brother.'  
Atrex chuckled his reply. 'I was born on the world which birthed our species.'  
Ozpin stood before a large wooden door, it was the size of an leginary atop another's shoulders, standing straight. 'Please gentlemen, in here.' He opened the large door, it swung with a hollow creek, hinting at poor maintenance.  
The room beyond was a classroom, one with an empty cage set off to the right-hand side. It was laid out in a tiered semicircle, the reason for this was simple; to build consensus amongst the student body. A smart, if simple idea.  
'Tell me, headmaster ozpin,' spoke up Tarsha. 'Do your students intermingle?'  
Ozpin pause before answering with a question of his own. 'In what manner of mingling do you mean?'  
'Do they sit in set cliques, or, do they sit separated from their friends?'  
'They commonly sit with their friends, but they are free to mingle with other students outside of class. Such as the library, canteen, or any other facility on campus,' answered the headmaster.  
Tarsha shook his head. 'Then the design of this classroom and all others is futile at best,' he said. 'If they only sit with those they are close to, how then are they to grow as people. How are they to grow as people. You are only reinforcing those friendships already present.'  
'We here at Beacon Academy believe that our students should be comfortable in their education here.'  
Sharax stepped forwards. 'Headmaster, we could continue on down this line of conversation. However, it would only lead to a similar terminus as that involving your amphitheatre.'  
'I meant no offence to you, Ozpin.' Tarsha said. 'I am only explaining a flaw in your education system. It is best to let the children grow by interacting with others. If you do not, they will never grow and improve, only pause in their skills and fail.'  
Ozpin nodded. 'I accept this as best I can. Now please gentlemen, come and see our wonderful library, from there you may learn what you wish of my world.'

Jaune Arc, soul male child of the Arc family, looked at the giants in awe. They were giants, larger than Yatsuhashi of team CFVY. They moved in a way that conflicted yet marched that of each other, smooth and fluid Raven's, precise, calm and lockstep with the Hands.  
'I'm gonna go back to the dorm,' he said to his teammates. 'Let me know if anything happens.'

Atrex connected his armours sub-cogitator to a data-stack of the Beacon Academy. As befitted his station of Iron Father, Atrex's armour was possessed of more advanced cogitators, amongst other systems. He placed his bulky helmet over his head, connecting it to his armour.  
Data ran across his retinal display in screeds, blink-clicking a rune, he reduced it to a small screen for later examining. He removed the data-stack from his connection port, turning to give Tarsha and Sharax the information he had taken.  
He examined a short essay which had fallen atop the un-organised mess of data. It spoke in short, vague terms describing the creatures of Grimm. 'I will organise this for easier consumption later,' he told his companions. 'If you wish, I will leave some colour text for you.' He said in good humour.  
He removed his helm to look at Ozpin. 'Gentlemen, would you care to read anything. My library is well stocked with many texts, both historic and more esoteric.'  
Atrex waved his hand as he spoke. 'No, I have already downloaded the majority of the digital contents of your library. I shall examine their contents at a later time, or at least those which seem useful to myself and my brothers.'  
Ozpin nodded in vague understanding. Before anyone spoke again, Atrex's vox-bead chimed in his ear.  
'Iron Father,' came the voice of legionary Veln. 'We have spotted a number of craft approaching the Academy. They appear to be military craft, i count four ships with an escort of fighter craft, easily twenty strong. They will be upon us by the end of the hour.'  
Turning to regard Ozpin, Atrex said, 'Who is on the approaching craft?'  
Ozpin stared dumbfounded. According to the clock behind Atrex, it would take Ironwood almost another hour to reach the school. Had they seen him or radar. They couldn't have seen him, surely.  
'That is my friend and ally, General James Ironwood of the Kingdom of Atlas.' Ozpin said. 'He shall be representing his nation in our discussions.'  
'This Atlas,' Sharax said. 'How prominent is it in the sphere of power of your planet.'  
'It has the single largest military of any Kingdom. It is responsible for the CCP system, the one which connects each Kingdom to one another. They are also the single largest producer of Dust, the rarest material of our world. Essentially they have a military, technology and economic dominance over Remnant.'  
'How is it then, that they have not yet absorbed your own and the other Kingdoms into its own then?' On most worlds were a single super power held dominance, all other nations were soon to either be conquered or absorbed into it over time.  
'The last war of our world has led to a peace between the Four Kingdoms, none dare risk that peace now.' Opin explained. 'Atlas has only recently re-attained its position as the prominent Kingdom. For much of the past half-century, it has been this Kingdom, Vale, which had been in power.'  
'Why then, did Vale not absorb the other nations then?' Tarsha asked.  
'The last King of Vale decreed that the Four Kingdom were to be reborn, that they were to grow strong again. Though quite simply, Vale too was a broken nation, it could never absorb the other nations, not without itself collapsing soon after.'  
Tarsha nodded. 'Then Ozpin, shall we meet this General Ironwood.'  
In silence Ozpin led the Three Astartes from the library.  
**Afterword, nothing smart to say, hope you enjoy. Till next time, I've been Jam.**


	14. Chapter 14

General James Ironwood of the Atlesian Military stood on the bridge of his airship, the _Invincible_. Or at least it was meant to be his airship. The which he more commonly used was undergoing refit near Atlas. The _Invincible_ was a good ship, a great ship some called her.  
She had toured across Atlas for the first five years of her service, her sixth had seen her transferred to Ironwoods flotilla.  
Now, Ironwood gazed out from the bridge windows at the academy of Vale, Beacon Academy. He saw a cruciform craft on one of the schools landing pads, it was large and ungainly. Its wings seemed too small, its body too long. Yet, by some means unknown to him, the craft had been able to breach the atmosphere and reach the Academy.  
He consulted the information presented to him on a small in-built screen. The screen showed the trajectory of the craft and at which speeds it had travelled. It was faster than it had any right to be.  
A part of Ironwood, the part that still clung to his fantasy filled boyhood, was in awe at the craft. The rest of him experienced several other emotions. Fear front and foremost.  
What if this was the prelude to some catastrophic event?  
'Specialist Schnee,' he called. 'Ready a bodyguard. I want to meet these unknowns as soon as possible, is that understood.'  
'Aye, General.' Came the response.

Atrex watched the General named Ironwood approach from across the plaza. It had been his idea to meet in the open place, better to examine the General and impression on him the four Astartes.  
The General walked with the ease of a man half his age. He seemed to move one arm ever so slower than the other, a minor difference few would notice, let alone examine. The reason for this, Atrex quickly deduced, was that he two had an augmetic arm. Though where he took pride in it, Ironwood hid his from sight.  
Also, the General was under armed escort of six individuals, five men with primitive rifles and a woman wife a rapier of all things.  
This was a strange world indeed. The weapon did not even seem to use a disruptor field like his power sword. Was this woman a fool or simply over confident? Perhaps both.  
General Ironwood halted a dozen paces from the legionaries, Ozpin only a pace before them.  
'James,' the headmaster said in a way that hid his stress and agitation. 'Might I introduce to you our guests. These are Captain Sharax of the Raven Guard and Iron Father Atrex of the Iron Hands. From the Salamanders we have Sergeant Tarsha and Apothecary Nakra.' He gestured to each as their name was said.  
Ironwood nodded. 'Let me introduce Specialist Winter Schnee, my aid. And Sergeant Servus.'  
Sharax was the one to speak. 'Thank you for meeting with us, General James Ironwood. We have much to discuss.'  
With a wave of his hand, Ozpn gestured for them to follow him.

**Afterword, I know it's incredibly short. Review reactions will be next time. However, I want to ask you what you want next chapter, Traitors or Loyalists? Perhaps even a backstory chapter for a character or two. Till next time, I've been Jam.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifthteen.**

Atrex plugged his suit into Ozpin's archaic hololith. Light stuttered across the display, lines of static popped in and out as the image finally settled. It was that of a galactic map, several worlds were marked with symbols. Medusa, home of the Iron Tenth, Terra, home of the Emperor, the Master of Mankind. Nocturn, the home of the Salamanders, Deliverance of the Raven Guard. Other worlds appeared; Rust, Baal, Macragge, Cthonia, Chemos and finally stained in a splash of red, Isstvan  
A new symbol appeared, this one marking Remnant. 'This,' Atrex pointed at Isstvan. 'Is the system which we made our escape from. This one,' he pointed at Remnant, 'is your system.'  
The distance to the three mortals, Ozpin, Ironwood and Schnee, was staggering. 'That must be a thousand light years!' Schnee said.  
'More or less,' Sharax said.  
Ironwood spoke up. 'Who is it then that you fled?'  
Sharax shook his head in shame. 'Traitors. Betrayers. Tyrants. We were betrayed by eight cousin Legions. Four already, the other four committed soon after. Our three Legions were butchered. We made good our escape. We do not know how many others did so.'  
'So you say you are three Legions against eight?'  
'Most definitely not,' Atrex said. 'There are three, perhaps four other Legions I can name that will fight for the Emperor. The Ultramarines, the largest of all. The Imperial Fists, the greatest siege warriors in the galaxy. And the Sixth, the Space Wolves. Perhaps the most loyal of all.'  
'So six to eight? We can not commit to these odds. Especially if three of yours are so… decimated.'  
'There are others. The Ninth I can not be certain of, neither can I be of the Fifth and Fifthteenth. Then come the first. They seem loyal from my experience. So perhaps an equal tiding.'  
'Also,' said Sharax. 'The numbers of the Ultramarines alone could make up the wider losses of our three Legions.'  
Ironwood nodded. 'This is… a complicated issue. We don't even know who you really are. How can I be certain that you are not the traitors here?'  
Atrex rounded on Ironwood with barely caged anger. 'How dare you! I lost two fathers to those traitors! My gene-sire Ferrus Manus, the Gorgon slain by the brother he called friend! My Lord Commander, tutor and friend Amadeus DuCaine! I should strike you down here and now for the insinuation that I am a traitor.'  
Tarsha put a hand on the Iron Father's shoulder in comfort. 'Peace my brother, I am certain that our General Ironwood did not intend to insult you or the loss of your kin. Nor mine or Sharax's.'  
Taking a step back, Ironwood nodded apologetically. 'Yes, I am sorry for your losses. It's just that I am uncertain that I can assist you in any meaningful way.'  
'Perhaps you are correct,' Sharax said. 'But understand this, your world will be invaded soon. The ways of the other Legions are known to us. If I were them, I would take every world leading to Terra, along with any that may pose as a threat or source of supply. As an unknwn, your world is likely to be visited.' He looked out the window. 'And from what I have seen. Your greatest resource will be your people.'  
The Schnee woman grew pale. 'You can not mean… No one would do such a thing. Such a barbaric practice.'  
'My brother only called your people the greatest resource. You have other resources.' Atrex said. 'Let me be clear on this. They will take your food and burn your fields. They will raze your cities and take your metals. They will then take your people, culling them and taking only the strong. This is what they will do to your world and your people.'  
'Just how many do you number?' Ironwood asked.  
'Some one hundred. But rest assured, with us at your side your world and people will endure. Noe gentlemen. I believe we should talk about updating your military forces.' The hololith turned to another image, this one of an surface-to-orbital missile.

**Afterword. Again, short chapter, sorry. So Review responses. Firstly, Potato. Ah yes, Death of Hope, just beautiful. A truly amazing piece of work. Secondly, Jaalco. Sorry sir, but I just write this way because its easier to write and read for me. Third and finally, Ecinco. Sadly our loyalist friends will not speak of the warp and Chaos Gods. But i'm sure I can persuade the Word Bearers to do so. So my question now for what you want the next Chapter to be. 1. Backstory. 2. Continue the little subplot with the Word Bearers. 3. Continue with RWBY stuff. Till next time, I've been Jam.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen.**

Calen Mohr lifted the last slab of concrete into place, blocking the south-western gate of Vale's wall. The concrete was a less durable substance than rock or ferrocrete, but it would do for the time being. 'Clamp and weld,' he said. Mortal engineers rushed forward, as with the slas before, this one would be clamped into the ground, preventing it from moving, it would also be welded, further reinforcing the overall integrity. Sparks flew as Mohr watched, there were another dozen to place before his section would be deemed 'adequate.'  
The south-western gate was small, as such constructs went. A simple gate of stone and iron, marking the boundary between civilisation and the encroaching Grimm. Heavy, flat steps lead down to the gate, between which was a three-laned road. One leading in, two leading out. Soon, the small community behind the gate would be replaced by bulwarks and razor-wire nets, watched by Atlesian snipers and Vale's own limited military forces.  
This was the work of the Fists, but the Iron Tenth could just as well play that most skilled of Legions role when pushed to it.  
Mohr thought that it was a sight of most admirable work. For what they had been given to work with, the result would be a well-worked one. If the gate was breached, it was estimated that this sub-section of the city could hold out for days, if Mohr and his brothers were present.  
Though Mohr thought it admirable, the citizens of the city were less agreeable. Ground-cars honked and shouts of anger filled the air. Traffic, both pedestrian and otherwise, was being diverted to the southern gate, one of the two which would be permitted to remain open for the coming battle.

The local enforcers, police as they called themselves, aided by the military operatives, where keeping the masses subdued. They were kept at a safe distance from the defences and workers, and the Iron Tenth.  
Mohr was one of the two stationed at the gate. The rest of the mixed-Legion forces were spread through the city, and other settlements including the capitals of the other kingdoms, overseeing further defensive preparations. When the traitors attacked, and they would attack, they would be recalled to the city for the battle. He vox-clicked his brother to check that the timetable was being adhered to. Jubrin, the younger of the two, answered with his own vox-click. Words were not a necessity, not amongst his legion.  
Mohr re-adjusted his augmetic eyes as soft, clean air touched his flesh. Atrex had decreed that they would work bare-headed, better to comfort the mortals. Their helms were impassive, daunting even. In Mohr's case that may be a disadvantage. His eyes were glowering red-lenses, a quarter of his head had been given over to an adamantium cap, with one ear being little more than a burn-mark.  
With his helm, he imagined that the mortals would not stare in fear.  
'Tough work, ah Mohr?'  
The one who spoke was a mortal, and engineer named Saur. Saur was old, he too, like Mohr, was a fusion of man and machine. Both legs were poor native augmetics. One hand was little more than a set of pistons and gear exposed to the elements just to rust. Of all the mortals he had met, Saur was one of the few he cared for.  
'No. I do not tire as you do.'  
Saur nodded, as if that were just the norm. For some reason, Saur did not experience the same dread that many mortals had around mortals. 'It's a shame, my old man was one of the gatekeepers. Rest his soul.'  
A part of Mohr wished to chastine the man for his use of the word soul. But he left the mortal be. Better let him yab on then create a conversation that would reduce labour efficiency.  
'Is work progressing as planned,' Mohr said in a change of tactics.  
'Aye, though it would be nice to know why we're doing this.'  
Mohr nodded, it was a common enough occurrence with the mortals. Their media outlets were often up-in-arms about such things. Mohr struggled to understand why they needed answers, why could they not just act efficiently?  
'How goes your work?'  
'It is satisfactory.'  
'Good, good. Best get back to work then.' Saur said, returning to his labours.

**Afterword, no one gave reply to what they wanted so I decided to give you this. Gonna give more set-up chapters along the way before the final part of the story.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen.**

Aboard Ironwood's ship, a sword hung above his desk.  
The sword was made of crimson and the grey of dust.  
The sword had been all that had survived a crash in Atlas from years ago, the crash which had been reported by Laxin.  
Unknown to all, the sword was watching.

Centarien, captain of the III Legion, sat at the workbench in his personal chamber. When the knock on his door came, he knew who it was instantly.  
Nicholan, accompanied by Fultren the mute, joined their captain. 'You wished to see us, captain.'  
'Nicholan, Fultren, my brothers.' The captain said, rising to greet his older brothers with wrist-grips. 'I see you have eluded our guests.'  
Fultren snorted, signing his reply in battle-argut. '_Aye, that we did, captain. Left them in the sparring cages with our dear Cymar_.'  
The one he spoke of, Cymar, was a giant of a warrior. A brute as square-faced as his thunder hammer.  
'Of course he is.'  
Centarien turned to regard a scroll of tattered leather, the item he had been examining well before he had summoned his two brothers. He reached for the scroll and held it up to his brothers. 'Hierax, the leader of those overly religious fools gave me this. I can't make much of it, save that it is a doomsday prophecy of sorts. We are to aid him in this undertaking of his. His orders have been approved by a warrior in his Legion and one of our higher ranking officers.'  
'Who?' Nicholan asked, passing the scroll over to Fultren.  
Centarien chuckled. 'I am prohibited from sharing that information. But I shall say this, he has the Phenocian's ear.'  
That made the sergeant scowl.  
'Eidolon, Julius, perhaps even the Spider?'  
'Perhaps. But doubtful. They are not likely to hand us over to the services of these fools. So what I want is for you two to keep an eye on those fools, Then when the time comes, end them.'  
'What of our other brothers?'  
'Galen will either swim with the sea, or against it.'

**Well, that was short. Just wanted an interval before things kick into overdrive. Take care and enjoy.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen.**

Ruby Rose ran for her life. The Iron Hand overseeing her team and that of Jaune's, an ancient wheezing creature named Athol, was firing indiscriminately around them. She had seen what these weapons could do to a Grimm, and someone like her. She had also been told about the 'servitors' they employed, and what fate she would have if she failed and the bolt-tond didn;t end her.  
So, Ruby Rose, leader of Team RWBY ran.  
The course was, in theory, a simple one. You were given one hour to get from Beacon Academies plaza to a flag just under three kilometers from the school. What had not been mentioned were the 'hindrances' that had been set up.  
'Hindrance!' She heard Weiss scream. 'He calls himself and two dozen robots with guns and swords a hindrance!'  
The voice of Athol came over the two-team comms in everyone's ears. 'That is a hindrance. In my days, the earliest of the crusade, this would be what you call a "piece of cake". I have faced xenos children more threatening than this. And they are not "robots," Schnee. They are servitors. If that is so hard to understand,' a bolt detonated near the heiresses' feet. 'Then I will gladly give you an in depth explanation.'  
This was something which they had grown used to. Athol had been prohibited from killing them, as Ozpin and the giant Atrex had said. Athol said it would be a waste of resources if he killed them, though they could all hear the ice in his words.  
'Now get moving, you have twelve minutes left and one kilometer as well. I wonder who will be my sparring partner today.' That got everyone moving faster.

Korphaal hid amongst the shadows of the warehouse. Slowly, unravelling his gas-propelled bolt pistol, he watched the fanus assemble around the one named Torchwick.  
Korphaal, for all his freedom-fighting history, despised the fanus. His reasons were his own, though they were not the cold hatred of Atrex and his kin. No, he had little care for their mutant existence.  
But they were a threat to the security of this world, so they needed to be removed from, as his second had said, the equation.

**Hello, small chapter. Well, we're almost prepared for the final part of the story, and back to big chapters. Yey. Well take care and enjoy all.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen.**

Sharax stepped down the ramp of the Thunderhawk, his power-armoured feet making contact with the Atlesian airships open-hangar deck. He was escorted by an honour guard of four warriors. All were Raven Guard, all veterans of the Great Crusade and Isstvan.  
Nellis, the elder, a mohawk of hair giving colour to his porcelain face. Varath, the shield bearer, one hand gripping his power axe, the other his storm shield. Kye, examining the welcome committee with cold eyes. Sheed, an Apothecary, stood with his face bare, the most human of them all.  
'Ironwood,' the Legion Captain greeted the general.  
'Sharax, it is good to have you with us,' the Atlesian General replied.  
An Atlesian, the one named Winter Schnee, stepped forwards and presented her blade. The other soldiers stepped back and presented their rifles to the heavens. After three seconds, they let out a three volley salute.  
'Please, Sharax. The bridge is this way,' the general ushered the five legionaries inside the ship proper. The route they took was not a long one. The Atlesian airships were short by comparison to Imperial vessels. Just shy of a third of a kilometer, the distance from the bridge to the hangar was less than twenty meters. Though that was extended in parts by the staircases.  
However, due to the bulk of the legionaries, they were forced to take a longer secondary route. This route brought them alongside the weapon batteries of the airship. They were much smaller than the lance cannons on Imperial vessels, even this powerful that their size would have suggested.  
'Tell me Ironwood,' Sharax said, halting to examine the weapons. 'Have you considered implementing the changes I and Atrex recommended.'  
Ironwood turned on his heels. 'We are making those changes to reserve vessels that we can test in a shorter base of time. Alongside those, my personal ship will be upgraded. Then, if we are happy with the results, we will implement similar upgrades to vessels such as this. Though with the work and resource requirements, I doubt we will even manage to fully upgrade those vessels.'  
'I understand. But if you follow Atrex timetable, that should not be a problem for you. But tell me, how goes the fortification of Atlas?'  
The general let out a heavy sigh before he spoke. 'The ground-to-orbital missiles proceed as well as they do in Vale. However, the problem is with mantle. The people are in uproar, they don't understand why we are rationing everything. Already, two upstarts have made themselves known to us. Salisa DeTroy, a Faunus in the White Fang, and Robin Hill, a sudo-terrorist.'  
'Sudo-terrorist?' Sharax asked, unfamiliar with the classification.  
'She has stood for a position on our council prior to our upcoming one. She has also instigated several riots in mantle. As well as hampering my forces on numerous cases. Due to a technically, a single sentence in one of our anti-terrorist laws, she both is and is not a terrorist. Therefore, some of us have coined the term sudo-terrorist.'  
'I see, I may be able to help with the DeTroy situation. Speaking of which, expect a second Thunderhawk to arrive shortly. Consider it's contents a gift.'  
Ironwood nodded, then continued onto the bridge.

Atlas, several years ago.

The Grey Giant, the Angel of Ashes, the Pilgrim. In the north of Atlas, a tail had begun to spread. Month's after the crash reported by Laxin, the small town of Maiden's Peak, it was said that in the dead of night, that a wanderer did pass through. Undisturbed by the locals, it did go unseen from mortal sights.  
But not a week later, reviewing security footage from his dust stores front camera, the owner saw the blurry silhouette of a giant.  
Somehow, the footage was spread across the northern lands and eventually the capital itself. As was common with blurry footage and pictures, myths and tails were woven.  
Some said that it was the ghost of a dead knight, slain long ago. Others say it was a wanderer. Others refuse to even accept that there was anything, claiming it was nothing but a distortion at the footage's edges.  
But one thing ignored by all was a simple sigil, others marked it's armour. But only one was clear enough to be made clear; an eight pointed star.

Vale, now.

Korphall marched through the bridge's blast doors, in his hands was one Roman Torchwick. 'Your gift, general,' Sharax said. 'Roman Torchwick, along with a cell of White Fang and one of your paladin's.'  
Ironwood chuckled. 'My thanks, captain.'

**Second to last prep-chapter. So close to the fighting. Not long now.**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter twenty.**

The first modified Atlesian craft rose from the troposphere under the guided eye of the Raven Guard strike cruiser. They would be deployed around the planet in the asteroid belt that separates the inner-system gulf from the outer-system gulf.  
The ships bore lance batteries which were less effective than the large Imperial variant. But given their small dust-based reactors and smaller size, it was the best that could be done with them. They also had modified void shields and small sets of three servitor-guided torpedoes.  
They were not intended to stop an invasion, only bloody it. Unbeknownst to them all, the enemy was already in the system.

Hierax watched the system manifest as the warp was pushed from the material realm. He saw lights dancing in the distance, distant stars or ships? It did not matter. All that mattered was that he had followed his master's trail.  
Soon, he would find his master and the Abyssal Prince and attain the blessings of the gods.

Centarien stood resplendent in his Mark III power armour. It had been repaired since the attack launched by the desperate Loyalists. Since then, he had seen a change in his warriors. Galen spoke with a hiss, Cymar swung his hammer with all the swagger that he was capable of. Techmarine Flavian and Apothecary Dynat had both grown reclusive, only seeing one another to work on their "volunteered" battle-brothers.  
Whatever was happening to his brothers, it drew Centarien's concern.  
'Sigal the company fleet,' he said to a serf, his ivory hair swinging in a warriors braide. 'We have arrived.'

**All for now, but that means that next chapter we start seeing fighting. Yey.**


	21. Chapter 21 Begining of the End

**Chapter Twenty One.**

They came from the void on flames of death. The purple-and-gold of the III Legion's empress ship and courtiers, accompanied by the crimson-garbed Word Bearers priest. The lethal blade-tipped _Luna Tenebris_ ploughed through the asteroid belt, smacking aside impediments. Smoky trails of ectoplasmic warp-residue clung to its recesses stubbornly.  
The auspex officer aboard the _Shadow of Deliverance_ cried out a warning, followed by relay-nodes updating the small Atlesian on the circumstances they had found themselves in. Gun-whales were opened, torpedoes primed and fire ships sent drifting into the belt.  
Yet for all this, the Raven Guard strike cruiser was not seen. Reflex shielding, unique only to the Sons of Deliverance, hid them from the encroaching battlegroup. The smaller Atlesian ships were not so fortunate. If the traitors had known their intent, they would have blown the Atlesian's clean from the void.  
The traitors numbered twelve. Ten escorts of varying class of the III, two strike cruisers, one again of the Third and then a lone cruiser of the Word Bearers. The Atlesians numbered six, the craft were at most a third of a kilometer in length, with oversized lance batteries and void shielding. They had been retrofitted, made ready to travel the void. Travel, not battle. Then there was the Raven Guard strike cruiser. Two of the Atlesian vessels were fire ships.  
'Send the Light of Atlas to intercept the Emperor's Children strike cruiser. Claim that that is the ship of the senior officer. Once you have closed, detonate. Then charge the Hope into the main body of the enemy fleet,' commanded Kravar.  
An affirmative went out from the Atlesian officers. The fire ships had a stripped down crew of eighteen personnel. The bare minimum necessary to crew it and detonate.  
'_Halt_,' came a voice over an open communication-channel. '_I am Centarien, captain of the Emperor's Children Legion. Commander of the warship _Aphrodite.'  
Kravar nodded to a lexmechanic who ran the identity wafers through the data-banks. As the tech-priests went to work, the traitor continued. '_We believe that this word is harbouring enemy combatants. In the name of The Warmaster, hand them over to use and we shall depart immediately_,' concluded the traitor, Centarien. Kravar could hear the smile on his face as he spoke those words.  
The _Light of Atlas _closed on the traitor fleet, but its path was blocked by the bulk of a much larger Cobra-class destroyer. 'Captain Silvin,' Kravar said. 'Close to within a kilometer of that vessel. Just keep them talking then detonate. May your sacrifice be the last.'  
Obeying, the Atlesian fire ship closed on the larger vessel sheepishly. 'Now captain, light the void with your defiance!'  
The _Light of Atlas_ detonated. Its hold had been filled with dust-filled missiles, plasma and haywire warheads taken from Aridian Secunus previously. The detonations electro-magnetic backwash paralised the closest traitor vessels. Two of them crashed together as their navigation controls failed to respond. They detonated in an explosion of red-velvet, joining the _Light_ and its previous kill.  
'My captain,' said the lexmechanic. 'It is confirmed. That vessel and its commander are who they claim to be. Last seen in the Isstvan System.'  
Kravar nodded. 'Relay to Sharax on Remnant. The fight had begun.'

Phaeton Morlock of the Iron Hands, stood at the edge of Beacon Academies cliff. Besides him, Narkra, the lone Apothecary of the Salamanders and youngest of his cousin-Apothecaries, stood beside him. They had developed a sort of friendship. It was a cordial one, born of necessity. Or so Phaeton justified to himself. It had been necessary to sown the seed of unity early. So, Phaeton of the Iron Hands and Narkra of the Salamanders became friends.  
Helmless, the larger warrior examined the star filled sky. 'The fight has begun,' he said absentmindedly. 'I can almost feel the blood of Fulgrim flowing through our enemies veins.' He turned to regard the Salamander. 'Iron Father Atrex has informed me that we are to return to the command centre immediately.'  
'They are coming,' muttered the Apothecary darkly. 'I can not help but ask the question, are these children ready for the darkness they are to face?'  
Phaeton shrugged, no easy feat in his imposing armour. 'Yes, no. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that by the end of this the traitors are dead and we are not.'

The primary defence council of Vale and Remnant met in a room already stepped in military history. The command centre was an old bastion built into the foundations of Beacon Academy. It had been used by the last King of Vale during the last war, and all those who had preceded him. When the Academy had first been constructed, an iron plaque had been the only indication that it had even existed.  
It had been built for war, and when a command centre had been needed, the half-forgotten bastion had been selected by Ironwood.  
The Atlesian General stepped into the room in which his command staff resided. Beneath gentle candles and lights, five of the most important people on Remnant awaited him.  
A pair of Atlesian troopers closed the door behind him. Two giant warriors of the so-called Iron Tenth stood nearby. If the centre was breached, it would be these two warriors who would oversee the destruction of any information pertaining to planetary defense.  
'Headmaster,' said Ironwood. 'Legionaries, Acting General Aurelos.'  
The greetings between them extended no further than a kind smile from Ozpin. Sharax, Atrex and Tarsha were all resplendent in their power-armoured war-plate. Ozpin was present in his normal attire, a small brooch indicated his position as Voice of the Council. The closest role any Kingdom had to King. Aurelos was the leader of Vale's militia. He had been the most senior commander in the militia after the sudden death of his predecessor.  
'The battle has begun,' grated Atrex.  
'It has,' said Ironwood. One of the newest additions to the bastion, a holo-plate from Sharax's strategium, came to life, painting the room in a phosphorus light. 'Captain Kravar's message has told us all we need. The enemy force will break through. Kravar will likely be withdrawing to the other side of the moon as we speak. With luck, he can split the enemy fleet in two. Reducing the numbers they can bring against us,' he concluded.  
Atrex shook his head. 'That will not happen,' he said, indicating to two dagger-tipped vessels. 'Save for a few ship commanders, all the enemy Astartes and traitor Tagmata and Army forces will be aboard these two ships. They will not divert from their target course. At best, a few enemy frigates will be used to hastle Kravar, preventing him from reinforcing us.'

The Iron Father zoomed in on Remnant. 'Atlas and Vale will take the brunt of the attack. Possibly all of it. With the ground-to-orbital defences, such as our void shields, ' the two Kingdoms cities were coloured in azure blue, indicating the shields. 'Any orbital bombardment they employ will be costly and largely ineffective. Forcing them to attack us directly.'  
Ironwood nodded. 'My ships should be able to intercept a few of their landing craft. Ozpin, Aurelos, how go your students and militia?'  
Ozpin spoke first. 'They have been organised into their teams and are being guided by professional Huntsman and Huntress'. A few dozen professionals have been organised to defend the city proper. The rest will take care of the Kingdom and flee civilians.'  
'My men are ready. Bolstered by the legionaries and your soldiers, they will hold as best as we can expect.'  
Sharax spoke up. 'My company has been deployed as best as possible. They will do their best to bleed the enemy when they breach the city, and the will.'  
Tarsha spoke up. 'My brothers and those of Atrex's Clan have also been deployed. Save for a few reserve units along with our own men, General.'  
Ironwood nodded. 'Then let us go about our business.'

**Afterword. Hello, why was this late, already mentioned the reasoning in Dio's Academia. Next, ok so fighting is coming soon. Till then, bye.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty Two.**

Atrex marched into the chamber. It was easily the size of a Clan Companies armoury aboard a strike cruiser, falling short of equaling a battle-barges. But this was no armourary. No, once, when Vale still had need for such places, this chamber had been home. When first the city of Vale had been born, the inhabitants had lived in sheltered warrens. Tunnels that had spanned miles, criss-crossing constantly, had housed the city's first inhabitants.  
But then, they discovered they were not alone. Subterranean Grimm of a myriad sort had culled humanity. Only by adapting and learning had the proto-civilization survived. They had built lodging on the surfaces, and from them, a city had been born.  
But centuries, no, millenia later, the caves had been rediscovered. Many had been lost to the erosion of time. This one however, had survived. Becoming a storehouse. Now, as Vale and all of Remnant neared battle, it served as an armoury.  
Before the Clan-Commander and Iron Father were six up-armoured suits of modified Cataphractii and Tartarus war-plate. The suits were all in grey war-paint. There had been no time to give them proper Legion colours, so in their place a rust-prevention paint had been used. The suits were unused. Fyfe the quartermaster had ensured their safekeeping, as had his mirror, the Raven Guard Korros, who had overseen their transportation to the surface. 'These are all of them,' he said, not questioning his aid, Phaeton. 'How long will it take to ready the assigned warriors?'  
The Morlock vetrean lumbered forwards. 'My four warriors are ready, I estimate an hour each. Captain Sharax's warriors will likely take longer. But no longer than a day. Once they are fully encased,' he continued. 'I can ready them for a strike whenever our… _makeshift _pad is ready.'  
The Iron Father nodded. 'If Remus were still here,' he said, remembering his old friend, who had died for these suits. 'Then I am certain he would already be encased. Never ceasing in his pre-battle activities. A shame that no more traitors will die by his hand.' He turned to regard the Morlock vetrean. 'Ready the men. Now if you will excuse me, I have defences to oversee.'

The first surface-to-orbital missile impacted the bow of the Emperor's Children Cobra-class vessel _Sanctity of Chemos_. The missile punched it just behind the main body of the blade-tip prow. It detonated. The ship shook with the unexpected detonation. The fleet advanced and paused, it drew into a defence formation against a non existing counter-attack.  
When the first missile came, it had been unexpected. The second had been. The fleet rose away from the planet, pulling away to a safe orbit. Far enough away from the missiles to not be hit, but also far enough away to make an orbital bombardment wasteful. That was the plan. Prevent an orbital bombardment to prevent a total annihilation.  
It was Hierax who had advocated for the deployment of a screening force of his cult soldiers. These were not trained Imperial Army forces, merely mewling wretches who were willing to be thrown into battle. They would be used to bait out the missile installations. From there, the ships would close in again and perform a series of orbital bombardment before finally launching their assault.  
They would deploy the small Imperial Army force that had accompanied them. Once that force had secured a landing, the Legion forces would follow shortly after.

Cinder Fall, servant of Salem and the self-proclaimed future maiden, hid in the shadows. Since the arrival of the, as they called themselves, Space Marines, her criminal network had been devastated. Roman had been imprisoned, Neo was missing, Adam had, well Adam was difficult to be sure on. Some said dead, others that he had fled or been imprisoned.  
Cinder had sent Mercury and Emerald back to Beacon. They had been enlisted in a sort of Huntsmen-militia. Whatever was coming, it was big. Missiles had shot up from a nearby island, who only inhabitants until recently had been a lighthouse keeper and a few dozen pensioners.  
Salem had been silent. For the past three month, she had been… erratic. Her commands had changed repeatedly, almost seeming like they were done so on a whim. She had recalled Hazel and Watt's from their own tasks. The dust that Cinder had acquired had been spread all across the city and other kingdoms. Whatever her ladies' intentions, the future maiden could not derive.  
She came across a blocked road. Not one blocked off with shanty wood, but with sheet metal and cement. It was a scene repeated throughout the city. Sighing in anger, she looked for another way to her destination.

**Well, combat is soon to come. Reviews. Thank you Gabe. Not really much to say, em, hows quarantine? Ye, so, take care all.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty Three.**

Alivan Goodman clutched his battle rifle close to his chest as artillery shells rained down on the northern wall of Vale. For two days now, from an area outside of his section's counter-battery fire, the invading army had bombarded the city with their artillery pieces.  
He saw the Atlesian integrity officer Ventrian shredded by an air-burst shell. He didn't much care about the integrity officer. They were just there to keep him and his lot in line. 'Ah shit,' he muttered to the nearest trooper, a sharp-faced youth named Kaza. 'One less gun on the wall, one less body between us and them.'  
'Would you shut up,' groaned a woman besides him, Titania. 'Can you not see you are scaring the boy. Ignore this old misser, only in it for himself.'

The Angel of Ash, The Pilgrim, did come to the Abyssal Queen's side in the valley of death. A land of broken rock and oil-black rivers, atop which sat an outwardly dilapidated castle. His death-grey armour had been stained with ash and bathed in ethereal blood as he made his way to the castle.  
Ancient runes were etched into his armour's plastron. Khaane, Tezen, Slanat and Narag. These were the names of the Dark Gods in the Pilgrim's language, the language of Colchis.  
Arvek, brother-confessor, Chaplain and Dark Apostle of the Word Bearers, clutched his crozius. Great vortices of dust clung to him, a halo of azure light hung over his head.  
+Great ruler of the Abyss, do you sense me?+  
No reply came but for the roar of black-and-bone beasts.  
+I come to release you upon this world once more. To see you ascend to your rightful throne.+  
As he closed on the castle, two great doors rocked open, welcoming Arvek.  
Candles flicked into life, guiding him through labyrinthian hallways until finally, he was led to a throne room. Upon a great throne, on a raised platform, overseeing a table of three, sat the being Arvek had sought for years. The Catalyst.  
A creature possessed of black veins and deathly pallor, it say upon a throne, crimson eyes glaring at him. A diamond-shape marked its head. Upon examination, Arvek determined the creature to be a woman of sorts. Her compatriots were all men, a scorpion-tailed one, a man of solid muscle and one with a fine moustache.  
'Name yourself,' said the woman. Her voice was cold and level, it was possessed of a force that would make many grovel in fear. But not Arvek.  
'I am named Arvek of the Word. I am a brother-confessor and Dark Apostle of the Word Bearers. Hail to you, great Lady of Remnant.'  
For her lack of expression, Arvek saw her arch an eyebrow. 'Dark Apostle of the Word Bearers? How odd, I am unfamiliar with such a role. I ask that you explain yourself.'  
Arvek nodded, drawing himself up to his full size, scrimshaw tokens rattling as he did so. 'My brothers, the Word Bearers, do even now asail this world. I hear them even now, distantly. They fight for you, my Lady of Remnant.'  
She appeared to like that title.  
'As a Dark Apostle, I am here to bring this world under your rule. As are all my brothers. Even now, they fight your enemy. Corralling them in cities, soon to be obliterated.'  
'By bring this world under my rule, what do you mean?'  
Arvek reached for his belt, drawing out a warp-flask. 'Ascension, my Lady. I have heard a prophecy. It tells of an ancient being, one born before the shattering of a moon,' he raised his head upwards. 'One that has great power, but is resisted. Upon ascension, that being is to rule not just this planet, but a thousand unders. I believe that being is you, my Lady.'  
The warp-flask weeped, a mist of ethereal-vitae perfumed the air, creating a nearly transparent veil. Being so close to the energies of the warp, the three men tore away from it, all the while Arvk and the woman bathed in it. A temple was shown to them, in it sat a sword. Its body barbed and incarnadine in colour.  
'With this sword my Lady. I would grant you ascension and see the prophecy fulfilled.'  
The woman rose from her throne, walking down to meet Arvek. As tall as he was, even taller than many Astartes, Arvek was still physically smaller than the woman. He sensed a malevolent energy from her, not unlike the Warp, but not nearly as powerful.  
'And why then, Arvek of the Word Bearers, should I believe you?'  
Arvek chuckled softly for a moment, regaining his composure with newfound vigour. 'Because. Your ascension shall bring the Word to a thousand worlds.'

**Well, Arvek finally being involved in the story and interacting with characters is amazing. But the question is, how long till the next chapter. I have no idea. I mean, I gotta fix it up now, but I want to procrastinate.  
Joking, but anyway, take care all.**


	24. Chapter 24 Pre-Assault

**Chapter Twenty Four.**

Hierax stepped down from the dais, the ritual blade in his hands dripping black ichor. Xelga stood behind his Dark Apostle. The captain and Apostle were alone, their brothers had departed to face the loyalists in the city. Both wore helms, though the grim-snout of the captain's was covered in tanned leather.  
'My master,' Xelga said, his words a rasping growl. 'Is the Anointed hout upon us? Do the peacock's not stand ready, do the Ravens not squawk? Even now, your chosen few stand ready to open the city to our nether-kin. Is he who you once served now ready to join with us?'  
'Yes,; Hierax said flatly, holding his blade tightly. 'My former mentor and brother-confessor, I sense him closing with us. He brings with him the catalyst. As we bring with us the sacrifice. The daemon-eye is broken, the future set. To be or not to be, we must wait and see.'

Centarine looked out over the city, his brother's Nicholan and Cymar standing close to him. The former with his red-dyed hair hanging freely, the second with his mighty thunder hammer slung over his shoulder. With them stood a Word Bearer, a sergeant named Marrack. He was a stout warrior, his face forever contorted in a sneer.  
'The walls are sure to fall by nightfall,' remarked the Word Bearer. 'I would join my Company brothers as they make their prayers to the Dark Gods.'  
Centarien waved the Word Bearer away, returning his attention to the city. 'He is correct,' he said. 'The walls are soon to fall, then we may send in the Army. These fanatics will make excellent shields in our attack. Cymar, I want you to take the aerial assault force, do what you want to enter the city. Nicholaen, you will support the Word Bearers. Galen will soon reach his target. Once you three have completed your tasks, I will lead the final push.'


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty Five.**

The fire roared and he fell. A mass-reactive impacted the bleached wall, tearing a chunk out of it as the floor gave in. Flames roared, spilling between the broken panes of the windows. He was tumbling, the view of the street snatched away in a moment. He saw great iron-slabbed vehicles running at the head of hunter-packs of mad-eyed men. He saw a ship, a modified Atlesian airship, its flanks burning, coming down and in the direction of the emerald forest.  
A wall of rubbled rushed up to meet him, its uneven body jagged with rebar. He slammed into the rubble, feeling his back break. He gasped. He saw brown-red liquid foaming around him.  
'Alivan!' He heard somebody say, they spoke his name like a swear. 'T-titania?' He questioned, a cold liquid was filling his lungs. It burned, in a way he was unfamiliar with.  
'Oh, Alivan,' he heard her weap. Then, he fell deaf. He would not hear her weap when the bullet took her in the neck, when she struggled to stop the blood from bursting out and between her fingers. He would also not hear the salvation of his comrades when it came.

'Open fire!' Commanded Atrex, his orders amplified by his helms vox-systems. His six warriors moved with inhuman speed and presicine. They opened fire, halting the armoured advance with a blue-bot blob of plasma from Kassar's cannon.  
Atrex took his power axe from his shoulder guard, pointing it at the smoking hole in the wall. 'Onwards,' he rasps, his throat sore with a day of constant shouting and swamps of smoke. 'Push them back! For Terra, for Remnant! For The Gorgon!'  
A set of five Word Bearers emerged from the smoke, their bolters blazing a path through staggering mortal defenders. They roared a threat in their homeworld's tongue, words which had always been debased.  
Atrex fired, he was joined by his brothers. They were like him. They were all old, though none of those that surrounded him now had been Stormwalkers like he or Amadeus. The echoes of old battles roared in his ears. He pushed them back, focusing on the now.  
Rounds and beams smack into the Word Bearers armour. A melta beam hits one in the abdomen. It pummels his armour and boils away his flesh. He becomes still. His organs boil, turning into a sea of viscuise fluid. The fluid cooks, before the heat consumes it. It spreads through his body, killing him as ribs boil and crack. As his body cools and he falls, what little remains of his internal organs flop out. There are four now. In return, one of his brother's heads detonates, turning into a red mist. His body fell, his armour clanging.  
Atrex ran at them. His boots rang as he bounded towards them. His brothers joined him, loping forwards. A bolt round took him in the shoulder, sheering away ceramite bonding-studs. The impact registered in his helm display, his shoulder integrity flashed from green to yellow. The pommel of the axe was hidden behind dark armour as his hand snapped shut. One of the Word Bearers, the sergeant most likely, came forwards, one arm bearing an energy-leaping shield.  
The Word Bearer struck first, slamming his shield into Atrex. The Iron Father reeled, one foot slamming behind him and the other loose. His chainsword leaped out, tip first, hidden by a blur of blades. He knew the blade would hit, and knew that he could not block it.  
The chainsword slammed into his shoulder. He felt the roaring blades choke on the ceramite, he could see the Word Bearers eyes behind his helms mono-chrome lenses. They were wide with shock, expecting to find plasteel where now there was ceramite. It was a combat modification, one most of Atrex's Clan-brothers wore as proudly as they did the Iron Hand.  
Smiling behind his helmet, Atrex punched out and into the Bearer left hand, iron fingers clenched. He shattered the Bearer's helm, then unfolded his fingers, using his splayed hand to yang the Bearer closer. He was faster than Atrex, but speed was not strength.  
With his spare hand, he swung the power axe into the Word Bearers soft-seal knee joint. Atrex heard the Bearer roar a cry, trying to hide the pain it felt. 'Atonement,' Atrex rasped. 'Your life for atonement!'  
Shoving the Bearer away, he pulled his power axe up-high. He swung it down, swinging it into the Bearers helm and cracking the skull beneath.  
'Fane, Alpheus,' he rasped, calling up two of his surviving warriors. 'Hold this position.. I will have the Atlesians relieve you as soon as possible,' he said, stomping on a second Bearers head, ending his miserable life quickly.

Hierax felt his master before he saw him. His psychic pressure was overwhelming, filling the Dark Apostles nostrils with burning sulfur. The second presence was an unknown, but no less powerful. It was a creature with feminine curves, its cream-white flesh marked by rivers of purple-black veins.  
'My master,' bowed Hierax, falling to his knees, followed by his captain.  
'Hierax,' Arvek said, biding his former pupil to rise. 'We are equal in rank.'  
With a cruel smile, Arvek's eyes fell on Salem. 'Let us prepare ourselves, the Ascension is at hand.'

Galen, chosen lieutenant to the coil-formed Centarien, pulled himself up and over the cliff's edge. He scanned the surrounding area, noticing a lack of security. With him came nine battle-brothers, each a warrior of his Tactical Squad. They were all young, sons born long after Fulgrim's departure from Chemos.  
'They leave their back exposed,' sneered Coros, drawing free a pair of combat knives from his many sheathes. 'They are blind to their own weakness.'  
Galen ignored Coros, instead he helped his brothers make it over the cliff's edge. 'We must hurry, the walls have already been breached by the Word Bearers. I will not allow those iconoclasts to lay claim to our trophies.' His brothers roared their agreement, pulling free bolters and more esoteric weapons like plasma guns and flamers.  
'Come brothers,' Galen shouted. 'To war, to honour. To bring sacrifice to the Prince of Pleasure!'

A roar of flames washed over Han Vitrian. He felt his body burn, he covered his face with his hands, blood weeping from them as the flames devoured his team mates. 'W-why,' he begged the purple-and-gold giant. 'We're human, j-just like you. Why? Help us, they will kill us!'  
'No, they will not.' The giant said, removing his helm to reveal a beautiful face. 'But when my brothers are done with you, you will wish they had.'  
With the destruction of Han Vitrian's team, the Battle of Remnant had shifted to the Battle of Beacon. With their sacrifice to the Dark Prince, the Emperor's Children had unwittingly aided the Word Bearers in their dark ritual.


End file.
